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DELSARTE 
RECITATION  BOOK 


COMPILED    AND    ARRANGED    BY 

ELSIE    M.    WILBOR 


i-y 


Jfourtb  JEMtion.    Enlarfle?  In  C:cjt  an^  In  Ifllnstrations 


uV  Hbi 


EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

Copyright,  1889,  1893,  1905,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner 
All  Rishts  Rf served 


NOTICE. 

The   material   in   this   book    is   either   original, 

specially  adapted,  or  used  by  special  permission  of 

author  or  publisher ;  is, fully  protecte.d  Uv;  copyright, 

-gnjf  :i^i6r  thc:ltitj"oriaj.'purpo*se6 '^rfly*!- '.SsTo  repro- 

.cjuction  of, it  ei:ther.-ii> .  print  :0f.  in;  wrid'pg  will  be 

^fienTtit'te'd!' ■■  T^ichi^re-' wishirfg*th'eir'*piipils  to  use 

this  book  may  get  it  at  a  reduction  in  quantities. 


c:!^  jo  .1 


10 

to 

o 

•-0 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

A  '  Aboot,  It.     William  Li/Ie 197 

Absolution.     E.  Ncf^hit 72 

Anno  Hatliaway 1*^^ 

At  the  Sign  of  the  ('left  Iloart.      Thcodosia  (larrison 432 

At  the  Tunnel's  Moulh.     Fred  Lystcr 12 

Auctioning  off  the  Baby 117 

Au  Revoir.     Austin  Dohsoii 310 

Baby's  First  Tooth 268 

B.  li.  Koinanoe.     Edgar  Favrdt.     krrnngotXhy  Elsie  M  .Wilbor.  246 

Bell  of  Iiinisfare 96 

Beryl's  Happy  Thought.     Blanche  Willia  Howard 446 

Biographical  Sketch  of  Francois  Delsarte.     Steele  MacKaye.  ...  xi 

Bird  Among  the  Blooms.     Marion  Short 359 

Boy's  Bear  Story.     James  Whilcomb  Riley 455 

Boy's  Conclusion 195 

Bread.     A   favorite   recitation   of   Delsarte's.     Translated   by 

Elsie  M .  Wilbor.     Analysis  by  Genevieve  Stehbins 214 

Brita's  Wedding.     Rev.  W.  W.  Marsh 303 

Candor.     H.  C.  Runner 194 

Civil  War.     Translated  by  Luey  II.  Hooper 265 

Cobra.     Miller  Hageman.     Illustrated.  . 129 

Conversational 153 

Coquette  Conquered.     Paul  Laurrnce  Dunbar 254 

Count  Gismond.     Robert  Browning 157 

Death  of  Crailcy  Gray.     Booth  Tarkington 414 

De  Cushville  Hop.     Ben  King 413 

Desolation.     Tom  Masson 325 

Discussion 1 50 

iii 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Doll  Drill.     Adelaide  N orris.      Music    arranged    by     O.     E. 

McFadon 91 

Dorothy's  Mustn'ts.     Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 379 

Drops.     Peter  Robertson 240 

Dutch  Lullaby.     Eugene  Field 10 

Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away 165 

Ever  so  Far  Away.     Von  Boyle 219 

Faith  and  Works.     William  H.  Montgomery 136 

First  Banjo 21 

Gallant  French  Serpent  and  Eve 460 

Going  of  the  White  Swan.     Gilbert  Parker 397 

Government  Spy.     W.  W.  Story.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor.     24 
Grandfather  Watts's  Private  Fourth.     H.  C.  Bunner. .........    120 

Haunted  by  a  Song.     With  music 113 

Her  Answer 9 

Her  Lovers 68 

Hints  for  Statue-Poses.     Elsie  M.  Wilbor 462 

His  New  Brother.     Joe  Lincoln 459 

How  Burlington  was  Saved.     C.  Mair 1 37 

How  Deacon  Tubman  and  Parson  Witney  Kept  New  Year's. 

W.  H.  H.  Murray 386 

Hundred  Louis    d'Or.     A    favorite    recitation    of    Delsarte's. 

Translated    by    Mrs.    S.    H.    Dow.     Analysis   by   Genevieve 

Stebbins 1 

In  Bohemia.     John  Boyle  O'Reilly 377 

Incident  of  the  Johnstown  Flood.     Monnie  Moore 49 

Jack  Hall's  Boat-Race.     Robert  Grant.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M. 

Wilbor 181 

Jimmy  Brown's  Dog.     William  L.  Alden.     Arranged  by  Elsie 

M.  Wilbor.  . 275 

John  Spicer  on  Clothes.     Mrs.  Abby  Morton  Diaz.     Arranged 

by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor 285 

Joker's  Mistake.     Pantomime.     Lemuel  B.  C.  Josephs 41 

Jovita;    or,   The  Christmas  Gift.     Bret  Harte.     Arranged  by 

Elsie  M.  Wilbor 168 

Kitchen  Clock.     John  Vance  Cheney.     Illustrated 260 

Ladies  of  Athens.     Greek  Play.     Mrs.  M.  A.  Lipscomb 78 

Little  White  Beggars.     Helen  W.  Ludlow.  .  ; 118 

Lord  Clive.     Robert  Browning.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 

Analysis  by  F.  Townsend  Southwick 198 

Lost 31 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

Low-Racked  Car.     Snmvel  Lover.     With  music 153 

Mammy's  Li'l'  Boy.     //.  .S.  Edwards 262 

Marriage  of  the  Flowers.     S.  H.  M.  Bj/ers 187 

Mary  Jane  and  I.     Annie  Rothwell 237 

Massacre  of  Zoroaster.     F.  Marion  Crairford.     Arranged  by 

Elsie  M.  Wilbor.     Music  by  Silas  G.  Pratt 225 

Masque  of  the  New  Year.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor.  .  .  .    -144 

Marseillaise  of  the  Greeks.     Constantine  Rhigas 444 

Men's  Wicked  Ways 358 

Mickey  Free's  Letter  to  Mrs.  M'Gra.     Charles  Lever.     Arranged 

by  John  A .  MacCabc 244 

Minister's    Housekeeper.     Mrs.   II.    B.    Stoivc.     Arranged    by 

Elsie  M.  Wilbor 101 

Minuet.     Mrs.  Mary  Mapes  Dodge.     With  music 33 

Modem  Version  of  the  "Merchant  of  Venice."     Joseph  Barber.  122 

Molly.     Anita  M.  Kellogg 15 

Moriah's  Mo'nin'.     Ruth  MeEnery  Stuart .   440 

Mr.  Travers's  First  Hunt.     Richard  Harding  Davis 428 

Named  by  Proxy.     Henry  Wallace  Phillips 405 

News  of  the  Day 212 

Oh,  Sir!     Translated  by  Alfred  A yres 4 

Old  Church.     //.  H.  Johnson 191 

or  Pickett's  Nell.     Mather  D.  Kimball 272 

Opal  King.     Gottlieb  Lessi^ig.     Arranged  by  Sara  S.  Rice.  ...      18 

Perdita.     Mrs.  W.  R.  Jones 53 

Pet  and  Bijou.     Helen  Mar  Bean 251 

Piano  Music 1 27 

Playing  School.     Lida  P.  Caskin 40 

Proposal.     Margaret  Vandcgrijt 167 

Revolt    of    Mother.     Mary    E.    Wilkins.     Arranged    by    Eva 

Coscarden 317 

Romance  of  a  Year.     Mrs.  John  Shenvood.     With  music 280 

Romaunt    of    the    Page.     Mrs.    Elizabeth    Barrett    Browning. 

Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor 140 

Schoolma'am's  Courting.     Florence  E.  Pratt 176 

Servant  Question.     Stanley  Schcll 372 

Shadow  of  a  Song.     Campbell  Rae  Brown 287 

.Silent  Army  of  Memorial  Day.     Julia  Clinton  Jones 333 

Sisterly    Scheme.     H.    C.    Bunner.     Arranged    by    Eliza    .{. 

McGill 360 

Snow-Flakes  and  Snow-Drifts.     Mrs.  Martha  T.  Gale 38 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Spanish  Gypsy.     George  Eliot 327 

Star-Spangled  Banner.     Jessie  F.  O'DonneU 299 

Stanzas    to    Eternity.      A    favorite   recitation    of   Delsarte's. 

Translated  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor.     Illustrated 70 

Stately  Minuet.     Hezekiah  Butterworth.     With  music 292 

Story  of  Guggle.     Thomas  Speed 338 

Sue  and  Me.     David  Belasco 148 

Sword  Drill,  "Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade."     Anna  B.  Webb. 

Illustrated 255 

Ten  Robber  Toes.     Lillie  E.  Barr 67 

Thanksgiving  Elopement.     N.  S.  Emerson 231 

Thanksgivin'  Pumpkin  Pies.     Margaret  E.  Sangster 270 

Their  Mother ."309 

Tomb  in  Ghent.     Adelaide  Anne  Procter 346 

Tragedy  of  Sedan.     Anna  Katherine  Green  Rohlfs 108 

Trumpeter's  Betrothed.     Translated  hy  Lucy  H.  Hooper 162 

T'ward  Arcadie.     Egan  Mew 314 

Virginian's  Final  Victory.     Owen  Wister 418 

Voices  of  the  Wildwood.     Mrs.  Ella  Sterling  Cummins.     With 

music 64 

Volunteer  Organist.     S.  W.  Foss 241 

Way  to  Arcady.     H.  C.  Bunner 369 

Wedding-Gown.     Etta  W.  Pierce 353 

W^hat  Ailed  the  Pudding.     Josephine  Pollard 29 

What  Was  It?     Sidney  Dayre 357 

What  William  Henry  Did.     J.  L.  Harbour 380 

When  Angry,  Count  a  Hundred.     E.  Cavazza 391 

Why  my   Father  Left  the   Arm}\     Charles  Lever.     Arranged 

by  John  A .  MacCabe 58 

Widow's  Revenge.     Frank  R.  Stockton 422 

Wife's  Lament.     Will  H.  Cadmus 178 

Wish-bone.     Leon  Mead 302 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

Alden,  William  L 275 

Ayres,  Alfred 4 

Barber,  Joseph 122 

Barr,  Lillie  E 67 

Bean,  Helen  Mar 251 

Belasco,  David 148 

Browning,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barreit 140 

Browning,  Robert 157,  198 

BuNNER,  H.  C 120,  194,  360,  369 

Butterworth,  Hezekiah 292 

Byers,  S.  H.  M 187 

Cadmus,  Will  H 178 

Caskin,  Lida  P 40 

Cavazza,  E 391 

Cheney,  John  Vance 260 

Coscarden,  Eva 317 

Crawford,  F.  Marion 225 

Cummins,  Mrs.  Ella  Sterling 64 

Davis,  Richard  Harding 428 

Dayre,  Sidney 357 

Diaz,  Mrs.  Abby  Morton 285 

DoBSON,  Austin 310 

Dodge,  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes 33 

Dow,  Mrs.  S.  H 1 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence 254 

Edwards,  H.  S 262 

Eliot,  George 327 

Emerson,  N.  S 231 

Fawcett,  Edgar 246 

vii 


viii  INDEX   TO  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Field,  Eugene 10 

Foss,  S.  W 241 

Gale,  Mrs.  Martha  T 38 

Garrison,  Theodosia 432 

Gale,  Mrs.  Martha  T 38 

Grant,  Robert ISl 

Hageman,  Miller 129 

Harte,  Bret 168 

Harbour,  J.  L 380 

Hooper,  Mrs.  Lucy  H 162,  265 

Howard,  Blanche  Willis 446 

Johnson,  H.  H 191 

Jones,  Julia  Clinton 333 

Jones,  Mrs.  W.  R 53 

Josephs,  Lemuel  B.  C 41 

Kellogg,  Anita  M 15 

Kimball,  Mather  D 272 

King,  Ben 413 

Lessing,  Gottlieb 18 

Lever,  Charles 58,  244 

Lincoln,  Joe 459 

Lipscomb,  Mrs.  M.  A 78 

Lover,  Samuel 153 

Ludlow,  Helen  W 118 

Lyle,  William 197 

Lyster,  Fred 12 

MacCabe,  John  A 58,  244 

McFadon,  O.  E 94,  95 

McGiLL,  Eliza  A 137 

MacKaye,  Steele xi 

Mair,  C 360 

Marsh,  Rev.  W.  W 303 

Masson,  Tom 325 

Mead,  Leon 302 

Mew,  Egan 314 

Montgomery,  William  H 136 

Moore,  Monnie 49 

Murray,  W.  H.  H 386 

Nesbit,  E 72 

NoRRis,  Adelaide 91 

O'DoNNELL,  Jessie  F 299 


INDEX   TO  AUTHORS. 


IX 


O'Reilly,  John  Boyle 377 

Parker,  Gilbert 397 

Phillips,  Henry  Wallace 405 

Pierce,  Etta  W 353 

Pollard,  Josephine 29 

Pratt,  Florence  E 176 

Pratt,  Silas  G 229 

Procter,  Adelaide  Anne 346 

Rae-Brown,  Campbell 287 

Rhigas,  Constantine 444 

Rice,  Sara  Sigourney 18 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 455 

Robertson,  Peter 240 

Rohlfs,  Anna  Katherine  Green 108 

Rothwell,  Annie 237 

Russell,  Irwin 21 

Sangster,  Mrs.  Margaret  E 270 

Schell,  Stanley 372 

Sherwood,  Mrs.  John 280 

Short,  Marion 359 

SouTHWicK,  F.  Townsend 205 

Speed,  Thomas 338 

Stebbins,  Genevieve 3,  217 

Stockton,  Frank  R 422 

Story,  W.  W 24 

Stowe,  Mrs.  H.  B 101 

Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery 440 

Tarkington,  Booth 414 

Vandegrift,  Margaret 167 

Von  Boyle 219 

Webb,  Anna  B 255 

Wilbor,  Elsie  M 24,  44,  70,  101,  140,  168,  181,  19S,  214. 

225,  246,  275,  285,  302 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler 379 

Wilkins,  Mary  E 317 

WisTER,  Owen 418 


INDEX  TO  ILLUSTRATIONS  FOR 
TABLEAUX  AND   STATUE  POSING. 


Achilles  Robbed  of  Briseis,  73. 
"Again   I   caught    my  father's 

voice,"  377.  ij  < 

Amazon,  40. 
Ariadne,  393. 

At  the  Shrine  of  Venus,  73. 
Atalanta's  Race,  41. 
Cain,  248. 
Ceres,  41. 
Clemency  of  an  African  King, 

265. 
Cupid  Bending  Bow,  40. 
Dance  of  Apollo  and  Muses,  41. 
Dancing  Faun,  248. 
Diana   Beholding   the   Sleeping 

Endymion,  40. 
Diana  of  Versailles,  40. 
Discobolus,  41. 
Eve  of  Saint  Agnes,  376, 
Fates,  The,  41. 

Faun  Playing  the  Scabellum,  40. 
Faust,  121. 

Fear  (group  picture),  441. 
"Flag  your  ancestors  and  mine 

fought  and  died  for  a  hundred 

years  ago,"  120. 
FQrtuna,  137. 
France  Protecting  her  ALsatian 

Soldier,  328. 
Ganymede,  40. 
Giole  Duelists,  40. 
Gladiator,  41. 
Grief  (group  picture),  329. 
"He    comes!    whither    shall    I 

go,"  264. 


Hebe,  248. 

Isis,  136. 

•yl  will  speak  out,  for   I  dare 

not  lie,"  456. 
Jewel  scene  in  "Faust,"  56. 
Melpomene,  41. 
Mephistopheles,  185. 
"Mother,  come  back  from   the 

echoless  shore,"  25. 
"Nameless    longing    filled    her 

breast,"  313. 
Niobe,  248. 

Niobe  Daughters,  248. 
"O   Thou,  Who  changest  not, 

abide  with  me,"  440. 
Pleiades,  248. 
"Powder-box,  I'll  take  a  little 

look  within,"  201. 
Praying  Hands,  57. 
Pudicitia,  41. 

Response  to  Call  of  Mercy,  392. 
Saint  Cecilia,  457. 
"So  I  think  after  that,  I  may 

spake  to  the  priast,"  312. 
Sword  Drill,  249. 
Terpsichore,  40. 
Three  Graces,  40. 
"Wake!    for    the    sun    drives 

night  along  from  heaven,"  24. 
"Where    are    you     going,    my 

pretty  maid?",  184. 
"Wraps    the    drapery    of    his 

couch    about    him,    and    lies 

down    to    pleasant    dreams," 

200. 


FRANCOIS  DELSARTE. 


"I  N  1811,  in  Solesmes,  France,  was  born  a  child  \vh(\ 
was  destined  to  achieve  the  greatest  triumphs  in 
art.  to  contribute  the  deepest  knowledge  to  science, 
and  to  command  the  most  marvelous  homage  in  so- 
ciety. This  cliild  was  christened  Frangois  Delsarte. 
When  Delsarte  was  but  six  years  of  age  his  father  died 
a  bankrupt.  His  mother  took  him  and  his  brother  to 
Paris,  hoping  to  earn  there  a  livelihood.  But  disap- 
pointment, toil,  poverty,  and  despair  soon  achieved 
their  cruel  work.  The  mother  died  suddenly,  leaving 
her  boys  friendless  waifs,  to  drift  at  the  mercy  of  the 
fearful  flood  of  Parisian  life. 

This  was  not  the  last  blow  tluit  death  was  to  deal  to 
the  tender  heart  of  this  desolate  child.  The  winter  of 
182 1  was  unusually  severe  in  Paris.  One  night,  in  a 
deserted  loft,  two  little  boys  entwined  in  each  other's 
arms  lay  fast  asleep.  The  sleep  of  one  of  them  was 
eternal  ;  and  when  morning  broke,  Francois  Delsarte 
was  hugging. to  his  heart  the  starved  and  frozen  body 
of  iiis  brother. 

Returning  from  the  grave  that  December  day,  Del- 
sarte experienced  what  might  be  called  an  inspiration. 
Passing  alone  across  the  plains  of  Pere  la  Cliaise,  cold, 
weariness,  hunger,  and  grief  overcame  him,  and  he  fell 


xii  FRAN  go  IS  DELS  ARTE. 

fainting  in  the  snow  [see  page  71].  Reviving  from  the 
fit,  his  senses  were  suddenly  entranced  by  a  vision.  Ex- 
quisite forms  and  colors  floated  before  his  eyes;  a  won- 
drousecstasy  filled  his  mind  ;  celestial  music  cried  intohis 
ears  and  flooded  his  soul  with  harmonies  which  he  after- 
ward said  haunted  him  through  life.  There,  prostrate  on 
the  earth,  alone,  helpless,  and  half  dead,  deserted  by  men, 
— thus  did  divine  love  seem  to  draw  near  to  this  rare 
soul  ;  heaven  seemed  to  open  before  him,  and  its  voices 
revived  the  artist-being  in  his  shrunken  frame.  The 
mystic  experience  of  that  strange  hour  penetrated  the 
inmost  recesses  of  his  soul,  to  fill  him  with  a  frantic  but 
a  divine  passion  for  beauty  and  harmony  of  expression. 

When  the  boy  awoke  from  that  entrancing  vision  to 
the  diabolic  realities  of  the  world,  he  beheld  bending 
above  him  the  grotesque  figure  of  a  chiffonier,  who,  in 
seeking  rags,  had  found  a  treasure  among  men,  whose 
value  to  the  world  the  poor  wretch  little  suspected. 
This  rag-picker,  touched  by  the  forlorn  condition  of  the 
dying  child,  lifted  his  limp  body  from  the  rubbish, 
threw  him  in  among  the  rags  in  his  basket,  and  carried 
him  to  his  den.  Thus  Delsarte,  afterward  publicly 
crowned  by  a  monarch's  hand,  and  called  "  the  king  of 
art,"  began  his  public  career  as  a  Parisian  rag-picker! 

Two  years  passed,  during  which  the  little  chiffonier 
wandered  through  the  streets  in  search  of  rags  and 
music.  He  gathered  more  songs  than  rags,  however, 
and  was  lured  away  from  the  most  promising  pile  of 
rubbish  by  every  band  of  strolling  minstrels. 

One  summer  afternoon  in  1823  the  band  of  the  Na- 
tional Guard  was  discoursing  airs  in  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries,  and  a  poor,  ragged  boy  sat  on  the  ground 
near  by,  making  strange  signs  in  the  sand.  An  eccen- 
tric old  man,  impressed  by  the  youthful  face,  and  puz- 
zled by  the   odd  actions  of  the  little  beggar,  watched 


FRAN(;OIS  DELS  ARTE.  xiii 

him  [see  page  ].  When  tlie  band  ceased  playing  the 
old  man  spoke  : 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  The  boy  drew  back 
abashed  and  frightened.  "Do  not  fear,  my  child,"  said 
the  stranger,  "  I  mean  you  no  harm.  Tell  me  the 
meaning  of  these  signs  in  the  sand.  What  have  you 
been  writing  here  ?" 

"  Music,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Music  ?     What  do  you  mean  by  that,  child  ?" 

"  I  mean,  monsieur,  that  I  have  written  here  the 
music  of  the  soldiers." 

"  Oh,  you  call  these  musical  signs  !"  said  the  old  man 
with  an  incredulous  smile. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  they  are  signs  of  the  song  the  band 
has  just  been  playing." 

The  old  man  looked  sharply  at  the  sand  and  said:  "  I 
am  a  musician,  yet  I  cannot  read  these  signs.  Can 
you  read  them  ?" 

"  Oh,  easily,  indeed  !" 

He  began  to  suspect  the  sanity  of  the  boy.  "  Let  me 
hear  you  read  them." 

The  poor  child,  touched  by  this  unexpected  interest, 
sang,  with  childlike  simplicity  and  naivete,  the  melodies 
he  had  written  in  the  sand,  pointing  out,  as  he  did  so, 
the  queer,  original  signs  denoting  tlie  musical  sounds. 

"Who  taught  you  these  extraordinary  signs ?"  asked 
the  old  man  in  amazement. 

"  No  one." 

"  How  did  you  learn  them  ?" 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  I  dared  to  imagine  them  myself." 

The  undeveloped  genius  of  this  child,  not  yet  twelve 
.^j^^fsof  age,  had  responded  to  his  burning  passion  for 
music,  enabling  him  to  devise  an  entirely  new,  though 
rough  and  imperfect,  method  of  musical  notation. 

Thanks  to  his  genius,  his  prospects  in  life  were  sud- 


xiv  FRANCOIS  DELS  ARTE. 

denly  changed  ;  and  the  boy  who  had  entered  the  park 
a  forlorn  rag-picker,  left  it  to  become  the  adopted  son 
of  one  of  the  most  benevolent  and  remarkable  musical 
men  of  that  day,  Pere  Bambini.  In  less  than  two  years 
Delsarte  was  admitted  to  the  Conservatoire.  At  eigh- 
teen he  had  a  leading  position  upon  the  operatic  boards 
of  Paris.  When  he  was  twenty-one  he  had  made  quite 
a  fortune,  and  had  married  the  daughter  of  the  di- 
rector of  the  Grand  Opera  House. 

When  Delsarte  had  been  a  year  at  the  Conservatoire, 
Pere  Bambini  died.  He  was  left  in  great  poverty,  and 
was  obliged  to  go  through  the  streets  in  a  costume 
which  ranked  him  among  the  lower  classes.  He  was 
determined  to  get  upon  the  stage.  He  had  studied  the 
leading  roles  in  opera,  and  persistently  applied  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House  for  an  opportunity  to  be  heard. 
His  persistence  became  a  nuisance  to  the  ogre  in  charge 
of  the  stage-door.  He  reported  it  to  the  director  of  the 
opera,  who  said:  "  Leave  the  fellow  to  me.  I  will  teach 
him  a  lesson.  The  next  time  he  applies  show  him  to 
my  room."  The  next  time  happened  to  be  during  the 
performance  of  an  opera.  He  was  shown  to  the  direc- 
tor, a  very  stern,  business-like  man,  who  hated  what  he 
called  artistic  tramps,  and  regarded  Delsarte  as  one  of 
them.  He  saw  the  pitiable  condition  in  which  the  man 
was  clothed.     He  said  :  "  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  I  want  an  opportunity  to  be  heard.  I  seek  a  posi- 
tion, and  I  should  be  glad  to  take  any  position  which 
your  estimate  of  my  merits  may  think  proper." 

"Oh,  you  wish  to  be  heard?  All  right.  Are  you 
ready  to  be  heard  now,  at  once  ?" 

"  Certainly,  monsieur,  at  any  time.  I  shall  be  only 
too  glad  and  too  grateful  to  be  .heard." 

**  Very  well,  wait  here.  I  will  let  you  know  when  I 
am  ready."      He  went  below  and   said  to  the  curtain- 


FRAN(;OIS  DELS  ARTE.  xv 

man:  "  When  the  curtain  drops  on  the  next  act  run  on 
two  flats  in  front,  put  on  the  piano,  and  let  me  know 
when  you  are  ready." 

When  this  was  done  he  sent  for  Delsarte,  and   said  : 

"  Do  you  see  that  piano  there,  in  front  of  those  flats? 
You  wish  to  be  heard,  you  say.  Have  you  the  courage 
to  go  on  there  and  show  me  before  this  public  what 
you  can  do  ?" 

The  director  little  dreamed  of  the  unconquerable 
courage  in  that  noble  heart,  or  he  never  would  have 
dared  to  propose  such  a  thing  to  this  youth.  Delsarte's 
first  impulse  was  one  of  indignation.  But  this  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  sense  of  the  fact  that  his  future  depended 
upon  the  grit  which  he  showed  at  that  moment,  and 
turning,  he  said:  "Yes,  monsieur.  You  ask  of  me 
something  that  has  never  been  asked  before  ;  if  I  can- 
not succeed  with  my  public  I  have  nothing  to  ask  of 
you." 

The  curtain  was  rung  up,  and  Delsarte  in  seedy  clothes 
and  with  his  stockings  showing  through  the  holes  in  his 
shoes,  walked  on.  At  first  the  people  were  puzzled, 
then  amused,  and  saluted  him  with  jeers  and  laughter. 
He  turned  and  made  a  bow  to  them  so  princely  and 
noble,  that  they  were  obliged  to  recognize  the  royalty 
of  his  soul.  He  passed  to  the  piano,  ran  his  fingers 
over  it,  and  began  to  sing  a  song  that  held  them  spell- 
bound. When  he  had  finished,  he  was  greeted  with 
thrilling  cheers  from  everj'^  part  of  the  house.  He  was 
recalled  again  and  again,  and  when  at  last  he  went  be- 
hind the  scenes  it  was  to  be  greeted  by  the.  director 
with  a  contract  for  three  years  at  looo  francs  a  month. 

After  a  few  years  of  marvelous  success,  and  when  his 
artistic  prospects  were  extraordinary,  he  lost  his  voice 
entirely  for  one  year.  He  was  obliged  to  abandon  his 
career  upon  the  stage,  and  forced  to  earn  his  living  as  a 


xvi  FRANCOIS  DELS  ARTE. 

private  teacher  instead  of  as  a  public  performer.  It  was 
this  calamity,  or  what  appeared  as  such  at  that  time", 
which  led  Delsarte  to  b.is.grand  and  noble  career;  for  it 
induced  him  to  search  after  a  natural  and  scientific 
basis  for  art,  which  eventually  made  him  the  greatest 
master  of  expression. 

Delsarte  became  convinced  that  his  loss  of  voice  was 
owing  to  the  pernicious  methods  of  vocal  training  then 
in  vogue  at  the  Conservatoire.  He  had  discovered  by 
experience  there  that  art  was  taught  empirically  and 
perniciously.  He  felt  that  there  existed  in  nature  a 
certain  philosophy,  a  certain  net-work  of  laws,  which 
alone  could  decide  what  was  right  and  what  was  wrong, 
and  he  determined  to  devote  his  life  to  the  discovery  of 
those  laws. 

He  did  so,  and  acquired  a  reputation  so  great  that  lie 
attracted  many  pupils.  Rachel,  Duprez,  Pere  Hyacinth, 
and  many  more  of  the  greatest  artists  of  France,  serve 
as  the  best  illustrations  of  his  masterly  method.  Soon 
kings  and  princes,  artists  and  authors,  sculptors  and 
singers,  came  to  him.  He  was  called  the  greatest  of 
orators,  and  declared  the  monarch  of  art: 

"  Tkis  master  possesses  a  7nethod  so  perfect,  a  style  so  pure, 

a  passion  so  profoimd,  that  there  is  none  in  all  art  so  noble  or 

divine." 

STEELE  MACK  A  YE. 


Delsarte  Recitation  Book. 

THE  HUNDRED  LOUIS  D'OR. 

Translated  by  Mrs.  Sabrina  H.  Dow. 


[Mme.  Arnaud,  in  her  charming  reminiscences  of  Delsarte,  mentions 
pdrticulariy  the  reciting  of  the  "Hundred  Louis  d'Or,"  by  Darcier,  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  pupils  of  the  master,  and  says  that  it  attracted 
great  attention.  The  selection  is  a  typical  French  one,  even  to  the  odd 
little  anticlimax  bringing  in  the,  to  the  French,  all-important  dowry  of 
the  bride. — Editor.] 

NE  evening,  under  tlie  poplars'  shade, 

Along  the  shore  of  the  river  dark, 

Near  the  mill  where  dwelt  my  miller 

maid. 

There  strode  a  tall  man,  stalwart 

and  stark. 

His   mustache  was   gray,  his  mantle 

blue, 

A    queer,   round    hat    half    hid    his 

face; 

So  strange  he  looked  as  near  he  drew — 

" 'Tis  the  Devil,"  I  said,  "or  the  Lord,  by  his  grace." 

Then  his  voice  like  trumpet  of  brass  rang  out 

Through  the  still  air,  as  he  said  to  me; 

"  Follow  me  to  the  forest,  nor  doubt 

A  hundred  louis  I'll  give  to  thee." 

And  his  wizard  eye,  with  fateful  charm, 

Drew  me,  lielpless  ;  I  could  not  recede; 
On,  on  to  the  wood,  for  good  or  harm, 

I  went,  nor  thought  of  the  promised  meed. 


When  the  astonishment  or  the  surprise  is  not  intense  enough  to  shake  the 
frame,  the  head,  wherein  all  the  surprise  is  concentrated,  is  lifted  and  ex- 
alted.— Delsarte. 


2  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

He  seemed  not  to  run,  though  swift  as  deer 
Was  his  course,  and  I,  with  fright  o'ercome 

And  fev'rish  burning,  thought  death  was  near. 
To  restore  me,  in  that  brazen  tone, 

Icy  cold,  he  shouted  once  more: 

"  To  the  depths  of  the  wood  but  follow  on 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  hundred  louis  d'or." 

Into  the  thick  of  the  wood  we  came; 

The  night  to  Stygian  darkness  fell. 
Upward  each  green  tree  shot  a  green  flame; 

I  knew  by  the  din  'twas  the  gate  to  hell. 
Then  suddenly  changed,  his  body  bare, 

Stood  my  sorcerer.     "Ho  !"  I  said 
To  myself,  as  his  eyes  glittered  red^ 

"The  Devil,  no  doubt,  for  I  can  tell 
By  his  horned  front,  and  tail,  as  well." 

He  showed  me  then  an  open  book. 
With  empty  pages,  and  bade  me  look. 

While  he  asked,  his  harsh  voice  somewhat  lower, 
"Would  you  gain  a  hundred  louis  d'or? 

"Then  swear  by  your  soul,  swear  by  your  life. 

Swear  by  the  Devil  and  by  the  Lord, 
Never  to  take  to  your  arms  a  wife. 

Neither  from  hamlet,  nor  farm,  nor  town, 
Until  your  fortieth  year  has  flown. 

Let  the  world  see  you,  day  after  day. 
Your  soul  ne'er  held  to  a  single  one. 

Flitting  from  folly  to  folly  alway. 
Like  a  gay  butterfly  under  the  sun." 

The  page  turned  crimson  beneath  his  claw, 
While  his  brassy  voice  resounded  cold: 


Under  the  influence  o/  passion,  the  iioice  rises  ivith  a  brilliancy  corre- 
sponding in  proportion  to  the  magnitude  of  the  thing  it  would  express,  and 
becomes  lowered  to  express  stnallness  or  meanness. — Delsakth, 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

"  Sign  here  and  a  hundred  louis  d'or 
I'll  give  to  thee  in  ringing  gold." 

Instead  of  signing  upon  the  place 

The  Devil  marked  with  his  bloody  grip,   , 
"'Twere  better,"  I  thought,  "a  cross  to  trace,' 

Which  I  did,  a  prayer  upon  my  lip. 
At  this,  his  Majesty  fled  in  smoke; 

And  quickly  I  was  transported  again 
To  the  mill-chamber,  and  my  dear  maid, 

Oh,  never  so  dear  to  me  as  then. 
**  See  here,"  she  said,  "  I  give  all  to  thee — 

My  heart,  my  mill,  my  treasure-store." 
Then  in  copper  sous  she  gave  to  me. 

In  all,  a  hundred  louis  d'or ! 


SUGGESTIVE   ANALYSIS. 
Genevieve  Stebbins. 

I  should  advise  no  one  who  has  not  acquired  the  dy- 
namic voice — a  voice  with  moving  power  back  of  it — to 
attempt  this  selection.  The  strongest  use  of  psychic 
vision,  a  vivid  imagination,  is  here  necessary;  to  make 
an  audience  see  and  feel,  the  reciter  himself  must  first 
be  impressed  with  the  reality  of  the  scene.  The  con- 
trast between  the  mystic  voice  of  the  narrator  and 
the  brazen  resonance  of  that  of  the  demon  must  be 
brought  out,  but  not  too  abruptly.  Horror  combined 
with  fascination  should  be  expressed  in  the  voice  when 
the  real  character  of  the  fiend  is  revealed;  the  man  is 
tempted,  and  the  struggle  must  be  shown.  The  thought 
of  the  cross  suggests  the  prayer,  and  the  voice  sliould 
express  appeal,  and  then  peace  and  calm.  The  maiden's 
voice  should  be  that  of  love  and  tenderness. 

In  the  first  stanza,  the  action  is  outward,  the  gestures 
descriptive;  the  Devil  beckons  the  man  to  follow. 


Oratertcal  art  is  the  means  of  expressing  the  emotions  of  the  soul  by  the 
play  of  the  organs.  It  is  the  sum  total  0/  rules  and  laws  resulting /rom  the 
reciprocal  action  0/  mind  and  body. — Delaumosnb, 


+ 


4  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

In  the  second  stanza,  the  action  is  that  of  following, 
with  raised  hands,  bent  knees,  and  e)'^es  opened  wide,  as 
if  charmed;  the  Devil  turns  his  head  over  his  shoulder 
to  shout  his  temptation. 

In  the  third  stanza,  the  man  sees  each  horror  he  de- 
scribes* and  shudders  and  recoils  from  it;  but  at  the 
vision  of  the  fiend  revealed,  he  stands  paralyzed  with 
fear,  arms  thrown  up  over  the  head,  knees  bent  and 
trembling,  chest  sunken.  The  Devil's  action  should 
be  the  opposite:  bold  and  commanding,  but  the  face 
concentrated  with  hate  and  the  eyes  pinched.  When  the 
sign  of  the  cross  is  made,  the  attitude  becomes  one  of 
exaltation,  and  the  action  and  expression  should  be  of 
calm  and  love. 


OH,  SIR! 

Translated  and  Adapted  by  Alfred  Ayres. 


A  YOUNG  girl  of  sixteen,  lithe,  fair,  and  fresh,  who 
has  just  laid  aside  her  convent  gown,  and  bidden 
good-by  to  her  convent  chums,  is  now  at  home  and  to 
remain. 

Alone  in  the  drawing-room,  the  door  of  which  is 
closed,  with  an  air  in  which  there's  something  of  rev- 
erie, yet  more  of  vanity,  she  contemplates  the  effect  of 
her  transformation  from  school-girl  to  demoiselle. 

She  runs  her  tap'ring  fingers  through  her  curls,  con- 
fines a  refractory  end  of  lace,  gives  a  toss  to  her  shapely 
head,  and  smiles.     With  sweet  self  she  is  content. 

Suddenly  the  door  is  opened.  She  crimsons  to  the 
eyes  thus  to  be  surprised,  surrounded  on  three  sides 
as  she  is  by  Venetian  mirrors. 

"Ah,  it's  you,  mamma!"  she  cries,  and  hastens  to 
throw  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck.     These  little 


The  shoulder,  in  every  man  who  is  agitated  or  moved,  rises  in  exact  propor- 
tion to  the  intensity  of  his  emotion. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  5 

ways  in  daughters  are  ever  pleasing  to  mammas.  This 
mamma  is  most  indulgent,  still  young,  a  widow,  and  a 
baroness. 

"  Daughter,  dear,  whence  comes  this  emotion  ?  You 
need  have  no  fears  I  shall  reproach  you." 

"  But,  mamma,  I  have  great  fears." 

"  Fears  ?     You  ? — of  what  ?" 

"  Of  everything,  mamma,  of  everything  !" 

"Of  everything?     That's  vague." 

"Of  the  world,  mamma.  For  at  the  convent  they 
told  us  of  the  world  so  much  that's  bad.  They  painted 
it  in  such  colors  that  I  shudder  when  I  recall  them. 
They  haunt  me  often  in  my  dreams.  Yesterday  I  was 
but  a  school-girl;  to-day  I  am  a  demoiselle.  Childlike 
prattle  no  longer  becomes  me;  now,  all  must  be  studied, 
dignified,  imposing.  Why,  mamma,  I  am  timid,  ill  at 
ease  even  with  my  cousin  Charles,  a  simple  student. 
Suppose  a  young  man,  a  stranger,  were  to  speak  to  me — 
what  should  my  answer  be  ?   Should  it  be  always  '  Yes  ?'  " 

"  Not  for  the  world,  my  daughter  !" 

"Well,  then,  I'll  answer,  '  No  ! '" 

"That,  too,  is  seldom  prudent." 

"But,  mamma — " 

"'No'  and  'yes'  from  maiden  lips  have  oft  been 
known  to  compromise." 

"  What  shall  I  answer,  then  ?" 

"  A  word  that  says  nothing.  '  Oh,  sir  ! '  for  example. 
Of  'Oh,  sir!'  can  come  no  harm;  and  said  in  fitting 
tone,  '  Oh,  sir  ! '  does  very  well.  '  Oh,  sir  ! '  now  in  this 
tone,  '  Oh,  sir  ! '  now  in  that,  with  a  graceful  salutation 
— how  many  in  high  places  are  puzzled  to  answer 
more  !" 


The  theories  of  Delsarte^far  from  hampering  the /ree  expansion  o/ art,  do 
but  enlarge  its  horizon,  and  prepare  a  broader  yield  /or  its  harmonies. 

,  •  — Arnald. 


6  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"Thank  you,  mamma.  I'm  already  reassured.  I 
shall  answer  always  '  Oh,  sir  ! '  with  studious  care." 

And  now  the  baroness  withdraws,  as  to  herself  she 
says:  "  From  these  two  words  there's  surely  naught  to 
fear." 

A  few  minutes  have  elapsed,  when  again  the  door  is 
opened.  A  footman,  who,  thinking  the  baroness  still  in 
the  drawing-room,  with  a  wooden  mien  and  in  sonorous 
tones  announces:  "Viscount  Albert  de  Monsablon." 
The  viscount  is  charming:  in  bearing,  all  he  should  be 
— young,  tall,  graceful,  a  very  man  of  fashion.  On  see- 
ing Bertha  alone,  her  big,  blue  eyes  timidly  cast  down, 
for  a  moment  he  puts  on  the  air  of  one  embarrassed, 
though  in  truth  the  traitor  is  delighted  with  the  mis- 
adventure. 

"Miss  Bertha!  in  Paris!  Accident  provides  for  me 
a  charming  surprise.  With  the  convent  now  you're 
done  forever,  let  us  hope.  Now  the  paternal  fireside 
will  be  light  and  bright  as  ne'er  before.  May  I  be  per- 
mitted to  share  its  warmth  ?" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  I  stood  before  you  last  autumn  dumb  with  amaze- 
ment.    You  had  grown  so  stately,  so  beautiful — " 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  How  stupid  I  did  appear  !" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  But  that  should  not  surprise  you.  When  last  I  had 
seen  you,  you  were  deeply  absorbed  in  robing  in  satin 
a  pair  of  Christmas  doll-babies.  Now,  you  will  dress 
^^//-babies  no  more." 

"  Oh,  sir  !" 

"What  a  long  way  off  are  those  days  now!  Now 
* ' — . — ■ — -*— 1 

The  arm  should  move  gently  toward  the  object  it  wishes  to  caress.  Under 
the  rapid  action  of  surprise^  there/ore,  it  could  only  ity'ure  or  repel  that  ob- 
ject.— Delsarte.  • 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  7 

your  dolls  lie  neglected  in  odd  corners.     You  have  other 
pastimes,  other  joys.     Do  you  like  to  dance?" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"Nothing  more  natural.  You  are  at  that  age  when 
balls  possess  their  greatest  charm.  For  a  month  one 
dreams  of  one's  attire.  At  first,  of  a  flounce  or  two  of 
airy  tulle  or  of  a  cloud  of  discreet  gauze.  Then,  of  a 
rose,  coquette,  fast  knotted  in  the  hair;  of  pearls  in 
graceful  coils;  of  an  aigret  of  sparkling  gems;  of  neck- 
laces of  rubies,  sapphires,  diamonds — " 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  When  you  are  older,  you  will  have  a  husband  to 
provide  you  with  jewels.  It  is  a  privilege  that  custom 
accords  us  men.     But  now  you  are  so  young  I" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"It  was  just  at  this  season  that  we  played  together 
under  the  park  trees.     Do  you  remember?" 

"  Oh,  sir  !" 

"  I  see  you  now — such  a  little  thing  ! — your  luxuriant 
curls  too  heavy  for  their  silken  netting — running  here 
and  there  under  the  big  trees,  ankle-deep  in  the  daisies 
and  buttercups.  And  then  we  played  at  mimic  war. 
Your  big  brother  organized  the  combats.  He  was  the 
general,  we  the  soldiers." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  What  happy  days  were  those — days  of  joy,  of  rap- 
ture; of  projects  wild,  of  vows  half  foolish  !  Even  now 
my  heart  leaps  as  I  recall  them  !" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  Will  they  ever  have  a  morrow  ?     Are  they  not  to  you 
a  memory,  vague,  uncertain,  intangible,  like  a  phantasm 
seen  by  moonlight  in  some  deserted  churchyard?" 
+— + 


There  are  three  /arms  o/  expression  by  which  man  outwardly  reveals  his 
inward  experiences.  The  first  is  pantomimic:  the  second  is  Z'ocat;  the  last 
is  verbal. — Steele  Mackayb. 


8  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  But  how  I  hope  you'll  comprehend  me,  as  I  stand 
before  you,  gazing  in  your  eyes,  when  in  my  rapturous 
delirium  I  tell  you — I  am  most  unhappy !" 

'*0h,  sir!" 

"  You  are  kind,  you  are  good.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes. 
You  pity  me.     Yet  my  distress  surprises  you." 

"Oh,  sir  !" 

"Do  I  see  aright,  or  is't  a  dream  ?  I  do  see  aright; 
you  do  comprehend  me  !  Ah,  it's  in  bliss  like  this 
that  one  might  wish  to  die  !" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"Ah,  heaven,  for  me,  opens  wide  its  gates!  All  is 
joyous  in  my  heart;  there,  all  is  melody — the  melody  of 
the  spheres!  Bear  with  me;  I  thought  myself  far 
stronger.  Your  accents  fill  my  soul  with  bliss  ecstatic. 
Speak  I  must,  else  I  perish.  Bertha,  will  you  be  mine, 
forever  mine  ?" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  I  know  I  follow  not  the  form;  but  could  I  wait  a 
little  week  ? — could  I  wait  e'en  till  to-morrow  ?  I  ask  but 
only  you  !" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  Will  you  love  me  as  T  love  you  ?  No,  no,  that  were 
too  much;  but  I  await  my  doom.  Bertha,  will  you  love 
me  just  a  little  ?" 

"Oh,  sir!" 

At  this  juncture,  wide  open  swings  the  parlor-door, 
and  with  an  austere  mien  the  baroness  appears  upon 
the  scene. 

"  Ah,  madame,  you  see  in  me  a  man  beside  himself 
with  joy  !     Give  me  Bertha  !" 


Under  the  injluence  of  sentiment,  the  smallest  and  most  insignificant  thing;s 
that  we  may  ivish  to  represent  f'roport ion  themselves  to  the  degree  e_f  acuteness 
o/ the  sounds,  which  become  softened  itt  proportion  as  they  rise. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  9 

"  Heh  !     What  do  I  hear  ?" 

"  I  love  her,  and — " 

"  Sir  !  sir  !  not  before  her  !" 

"  But  she  loves  me  too  !" 

"  What  !" 

"  Mamma,  dear,  don't  be  cruel !" 

"  Bertha,  have  you — " 

**  No,  mamma,  no  !  I've  followed  your  instructions  to 
the  letter;  and  I  will  follow  them  always,  I  promise  you. 
But  it's  very  strange;  I  hardly  dare  to  think  of  it.  To 
say  that  one  loves,  two  words  suffice.  Indeed,  I  begin 
to  think,  mamma,  that  even  fewer  than  two  would 
suffice  !" 


HER  ANSWER. 


*'  \/^OUNG  man  proposed  to  me  last  night." 

"  You  can't  mean  that  ?"     "  Indeed,  it's  true; 
Asked  me  to  be  his  wife  outright." 

"  Good  gracious,  dear  !     What  did  you  do  ?" 

"  Poor  boy  !     He  looked  so  handsome,  Nell." 
"  Handsome  !     A  clerk  on  weekly  pay 

Asks  you — a  beauty  and  a  belle  ! 
But  tell  me  what  he  dared  to  say." 

"Well— first,  he  loved  me  !"     "  Oh,  that  part 

Of  course  !     What  else?"     "And  that  he  thought 

I  was  the  sort  of  girl  whose  heart 
Would  never  let  itself  be  bought. 

"  He  said  he  was  a  man — that  I 
Was  just  a  woman,  equal  so 


A  perfect  reproduction  of  the  outer  manifestation  of  some  passion^  the 
giving  of  the  outer  sign,  -will  cause  a  rejle.x  feeling  tt/i7///;/.  — Gknkvievk 
Stkbbins. 


fO  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

In  youth,  health,  brain  we  stood,  and — why, 
You'd  think  he  never  dreamed  of  no. 

"  That  he  was  poor  need  be  no  bar — " 
"  Well  !  what  an  attitude  to  take  !" 

"  For  love  would  prove  the  guiding  star 
To  fame  and  fortune,  for  my  sake. 

"  And  then  he  begged  my  heart  and  hand." 
"  Such  impudence  !  who'd  ever  guess  ? — 

I  hope  you  made  him  understand 

His  place  ?"     "  I  did— I  told  him  '  Yes  ! ' " 


A  DUTCH  LULLABY. 


Eugene  Field. 


AATYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe; 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  misty  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
*'  Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish  ?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


'      Given  a  rising  form,  such  as  the  ascending  scale,  there  will  be  intensitive^ 

1  progression  when  this  form  should  express  passion  (^uhether  impulse,  excite- 
ment, or  vehemence).  There  will  be,  on  the  other  hand,  a  diminution  oy  in- 
tensity where  this  satue  form  should  express  sentiment. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  ii 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe, 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew. 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 

That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea; 
''  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish, 
But  never  a-feared  are  we," 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

All  nigh*"  ^Ticr  their  nets  they  threw 
For  the  nSh  i.    the  twinkling  foam; 
Then  down  from  the  sky  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home; 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be; 
And  some  folk  thought  'twas  a  dream  they  dreamed, 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head; 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed. 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  mothei  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 


Certain  iittituties,  by  extending  or  contracting  the  tnuscles,  by  compelling 
the  breath  to  come  and  go  more  rapi<ily.  by  increasing  the  heart-beats,  cause 
/>hysical  interior  sensations  ivhich  are  the  correspondences  o/  emotion. — Gbn- 

EVIBVE   StKDBINS. 


12  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea, 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermei.  three, 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And  Nod. 


AT  THE  TUNNEL'S  MOUTH. 


Fred  Lyster. 


"\7l  rE  was  workin'  at  the  tunnel's  mouth, 

Joe,  Bob,  and  Jim,  and  I, 
A-pilin'  up  the  blocks  of  stone, 

A-pilin*  of  'em  high. 
For  the  frost  had  been  tremenjous  hard, 

An'  the  facing  had  given  away, 
An'  we  was  workin'  with  a  will 

To  fix  up  all  that  day. 

For  next  day  would  be  Sunday, 

An'  jist  a  year  agone 
Jim  an'  my  sister  Mary 

Had  turned  two  into  one. 
An'  then,  last  Wednesday  was  a  week, 

A  baby  Jim  was  born, 
An'  he  a  Christian  should  be  made 

Upon  Jim's  weddin'  morn. 

So  Jim,  old  Jim,  had  axed  his  mates- 
Joe,  Bob,  and  Bill — that's  me — 


Sentiment  a}id  passion  proceed  in  an  inverse  ivay.  Passion  strengthens  the 
voice  in  proportion  as  it  rises,  and  sentimeni^on  the  contrary,  softens  it  in  due 
ratio  to  its  intensity. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.  13 

To  stand  l)y  while  tlic  job  was  d<jne, 

An'  wind  up  with  a  spree — 
A  modest  one,  a  glass  or  two, 

A  pipe,  a  yarn,  a  song, 
Jist  to  cheer  the  young  un's  entrance 

In  this  here  world  of  sin  an'  wrong, 

As  some  folks  calls  it, — though  I  thinks 

We  make  ourselves  the  curse. 
And,  as  the  proverb  says,  "  we  might 

Go  farther  an'  fare  worse." 
Jim,  he  was  Butty  o'  the  gang, 

An'  up  or  down  the  line 
A  finer  fellow  never  stepped, 

No,  nor  yet  half  so  fine. 

He'd  share  his  last  crust  with  a  friend; 

And  as  for  child  or  wife — 
Wh}'^,  there  ain't  no  use  a-talkin' — 

He'd  jist  lay  down  his  life 
For  one  sweet  smile  from  Mary, 

Or  a  kiss  from  Baby  Jitn, 
Or  a  good  square  hug  from  either, — 

'Twas  all  the  same  to  him. 

Well,  we  kcp'  chattin'  o'  the  fun 

We'd  have  to-morrow's  day. 
An'  layin'  out  what  songs  we'd  sing 

An'  what  fine  games  we'd  play, 
When,  jist  as  we  had  hysted  up 

The  last  block  on  the  bank, 
It  pitched  away,  and  thundered  down 

The  steep  an'  slipp'ry  plank; 


i  The  /nil ^  vital  resurrection  o/  the  regenerated  trsthetic  man  must  he  /re- 
ceded by  the  unifying  or  blending  of  his  inheritances  front  objective  nature, 
and  of  his  mental,  subjective  acquirements. — Franklin  H.  Sargent. 


14  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

An'  there  upon  the  line  it  lay, 

Right  slap  acrost  the  rail. 
What  sound  is  that  as  makes  us  start, 

An'  tremble,  an'  turn  pale  ? 
A  stifled  shriek — a  louder — 

A  rumbling  deep  an'  low. 
'Tis  the  "  Flying  Dutchman's"  signal: 

She's  in  the  tunnel  now  ! 

An'  there  upon  the  line — the  stone, 

Full  in  our  awestruck  view. 
An'  in  another  minute  now 

The  lightning-train  is  due. 
Jim  stopped  for  neither  look  nor  word; 

With  face  stern  set  an'  pale, 
An'  steadfast  eyes,  he  made  no  move. 

But  leaped  down  on  the  rail. 

He  seized  the  massy  block  of  stone, 

An'  shoved  it  clear  aside; 
But,  e'er  his  feet  he  could  regain. 

Came,  with  remorseless  glide, 
The  murd'rous  engine,  an'  we  heard 

One  heart-appalling  scream. 
We  saw  a  ghastly  face  turn  up 

Through  mists  of  hissing  steam! 

An'  seven  hundred  souls  was  saved; 

But  Jim  had  given  his  life 
As  ransom  for  them  all.     No  thought 

Of  child,  nor  friend,  nor  wife; 
But,  seeing  what  there  was  to  do. 

He  did  it — there  an  end. 


We  move  away  from  the  thitig  luhich  we  conievi/>late,  to  prove  to  it,  doubt- 
less, the  respect  and  veneration  that  it  inspires.— Dei.s\rtk. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  15 

No;  I'm  not  cryin',  mate,  although 
If  you  had  lost  a  friend 

So  kind,  so  honest,  an'  so  true 

As  dear  old  Jim,  no  fear. 
No  blame,  if  you  should  feel 

Sometimes  a  trifle  queer 
About  the  eyes,  an'  if  your  heart 

Against  your  ribs  should  thump, 
An'  in  your  throat  should  sometimes  rise 

A  nasty,  choking  lump. 

But  with  no  pride  or  pomp  of  rank, 

Nor  hope  of  laurel  wreath. 
He  leaped  from  off  that  grassy  bank 

Into  the  jaws  of  death. 


MOLLY. 


Anma  M.  Kki.logg. 


"\  17  HEN  folks  grow  old  I  wonder  why 

They  seem  to  forget  their  youth  gone  by, 
And  whatever  we  do  are  so  prone  to  say, 
"It  wasn't  so  in  my  young  day!" 
I  think  it's  hard  I  should  be  chid 
For  things  I'm  sure  my  parents  did. 
For  how  did  my  father  get  him  a  wife. 
If  he  never  went  courting  in  his  life  ? 


Always  retain  a  gesture  as  long  as  the  same  thought  or  emotion  is  retained, 
or  as  long  as  you  remain  in  the  same  mood. — Genevieve  Stebbins. 


l6  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  how  did  my  mother  know  it,  pray, 
If  she  didn't  listen  when  he  said  his  say? 
Now,  they  forget  all  this,  and  I 
Must  do  my  courting  on  the  sly. 
Whenever  they  see  me,  by  night  or  day, 
Walking  and  talking — you  know  the  way, — 
One  or  the  other  always  calls  me, 
But  listen, — this  is  what  befalls  me. 

Every  morning  at  early  dawn. 

When  the  dew  shines  bright  on  field  and  lawn. 

And  the  birds  are  singing  sweet  and  clear, 

I  must  drive  the  cows  to  the  pasture  near. 

Now,  as  it  happens,  quite  frequently, 

Robin  More  by  the  bars  will  be; 

But  if  I  stop  to  say,  "  Good-morrow!" 

I  am  reminded  to  my  sorrow. 

A  voice  rings  out  on  the  morning  air: 

[Ca//wg.] 
''Molly!  Molly!  don't  idle  there! 
There's  work  to  do,  and  you  have  your  share!" 

Down  by  the  wood  is  a  mossy  stile — 
The  nicest  place  to  chat  awhile; 
But  sure's  I  sit  there  with  Robin  More, 
A  voice  is  heard  from  our  kitchen  door 

"Molly!  Molly!  see  those  cows!" 
I  look  around,  and  there  they  browse: 
Dapple,  Peachblow,  Bose  and  Rover, 
Knee-deep  in  the  rich,  red  clover, 


A  salutation  without  moving  shoivs  but  little  reverence.,  and  should  only 
occur  in  the  case  o/ an  equal  or  an  in/erior. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION   BOOK,  ly 

Wliisking  their  tails  impatiently, 
As  that  shrill  voice  floats  out  to  me: 

\^Calling.'\ 

"Molly!  Molly!     Where  are  you  ? 
Don't  you  know  there's  work  to  do  ? 
Molly!  Molly!     Drive  those  cows 
Down  into  the  milking-shed!" 

At  twilight,  when  the  quiet  air 

Is  trembling  with  the  sheen  of  stars, 

I  sometimes  meet  with  Robin  there, 

And  he  lets  down  the  bars. 

Then,  should  we  linger  side  by  side, 

Or  stroll  along  the  dusky  lane, 

Through  the  tender  hush  of  the  even-tide, 

That  voice  rings  out  again: 

\CaningJ\ 

"Molly!  Molly!     Come  right  in  ! 
You're  twice  as  long  as  you  should  have  been; 
The  cows  are  straying, — close  that  gate  ! 
Don't  mind  Robin, — he  can  wait." 

Now,  Robin  loves  me,  this  I  know; 

But  he  doesn't  get  a  chance  to  tell  me  so  I 

He  looks  it,  and  acts  it,  and  once,  last  night, 

As  we  sat  on  the  porch  in  the  soft  starlight, 

He  took  my  hand  and  held  it  tight; 

But  just  as  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 

(For  the  thousandth  time  within  this  week,) 

We  heard  that  voice  in  the  self-same  shriek: 


There  should  be  but  one  strong  climax  in  a  perfect  work  of  art.     The  artist 
should  work  steadily  toward  that  climax. — ^losES  Trie  Brown. 


l8  D^LSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Molly  !     The  cows  are  in  the  clover ! 
Go  right  down  and  drive  them  over, 
Be  quick  about  it.     Don't  you  wait, — 
Just  let  Robin  fasten  that  gate  !" 

It's  always  so,  and  if  old  folks  have  their  way 
I  never  shall  know  to  my  dying  day 
W/iai  it  was  Robin  was  about  to  say. 


THE  OPAL  RING. 


Gottlieb  Lessing.     Arranged  by  Sara  S.  Rice. 


[This  sketch  is  in  regard  to. the  true  religion.  Nathan  says,  "  I  am 
a  Jew,"  and  Saladin,  "  I  am  a  Mussulman,"  and  between  them  is  the 
Christian.  But  one  of  these  religions  is  true  ;  which  one  is  it  ?  Na- 
than, not  wishing  to  make  a  direct  reply,  relates  the  following  storj'.] 

T  N  gray  antiquity  there  lived  a  man 

In  Eastern  lands,  who  had  received  a  ring 
Of  priceless  worth  from  a  beloved  hand. 
Its  stone,  an  opal,  flashed  a  hundred  colors, 
And  had  the  secret  power  of  giving  favor, 
In  sight  of  God  and  man,  to  him  who  w^ore  it 
With  a  believing  heart.     What  wonder,  then, 
This  Eastern  man  would  never  put  the  ring 
From  off  his  finger,  and  should  so  provide 
That  to  his  house  it  should  be  preserved  forever? 
Such  was  the  case.     Unto  the  best  beloved 
Among  his  sons  he  left  the  ring,  enjoining 


The  pro/otind  obscurity  into  which  light phi}iges  7is does  not prevetit  the  light 
from  being:  and  the  chaos  of  ideas  ivhich,  tiiost  generally,  results  front  our 
examination  of  things,  proves  nothing  agair.st  the  harmonies  of  their  consti- 
tution.— Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  19 

Tliat  he,  in  turn,  bequeath  it  to  the  son 

Who  should  be  dearest ;  and  the  dearest  ever, 

In  virtue  of  the  ring,  without  regard 

To  birth,  be  of  tlie  house  the  prince  and  head. 

From  son  to  son  the  ring,  descending,  came 

To  one,  the  sire  of  three  ;  of  whom  all  three 

Were  equally  obedient  ;  whom  all  three 

He,  therefore,  must  with  equal  love  regard. 

And  yet,  from  time  to  time,  now  this,  now  that, 

And  now  the  third,  as  each  alone,  by 

The  others  not  dividing  his  fond  heart. 

Appears  to  him  the  worthiest  of  the  ring  ; 

Which,  then,  with  loving  weakness  he  would  promise 

To  each  in  turn.     Thus  it  continued  long. 

But  he  must  die  ;  and  the  loving  father 

Was  sore  perplexed.     It  grieved  him  thus  to  wound 

The  faithful  sons  who  trusted  in  his  word. 

But  what  to  do?     In  secrecj'  he  calls 

An  artist  to  him,  and  commands  of  him 

Two  other  rings,  the  pattern  of  his  own  ; 

And  bids  him  neither  cost  nor  pains  to  spare 

To  make  them  alike,  precisely  like  to  his. 

The  artist's  skill  succeeds.     He  brings  the  rings. 

And  e'en  the  father  cannot  tell  his  own. 

Relieved  and  joyful,  summons  he  his  sons,  ' 

Each  by  himself  ;  to  each  one  by  himself 

He  gives  his  blessing  and  his  ring — and  dies. 

The  father  was  scarce  dead,  when  each  brings  forth   his 

ring, 
And  claims  the  headship.     Questioning  ensues, 


In  proportion  to  the  depth  and  tnajesty  of  the  emotion  is  the  deliberation 
and  slowness  of  the  motion  \  nnd,  7'ice  t'ersa,  in  proportion  to  the  suf>erjicial- 
ity  and  explosi--eni-ss  of  the  emotion,  ivill  be  the  velocity  of  its  expression  in 
motion. — Genevikvp.  Stehbins. 


20  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Strife  and  appeals  to  law,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
The  genuine  ring  was  not  to  be  distinguished. 
The  sons  appealed  to  law,  and  each  took  oath 
Before  the  judge  that  from  his  father's  hand 
He  had  the  ring, — as  was  indeed  the  case. 
.His  father  could  not  have  been  false  to  him, 
Each  one  maintained  ;  and  rather  than  allow 
Upon  the  name  of  so  dear  a  father 
Such  stain  to  rest,  he  must  against  his  brothers 
(Though  gladly  he  would  nothing  but  the  best 
Believe  of  them)  bring  charge  of  treachery  ; 
Means  he  would  find  the  traitors  to  expose, 
And  be  revenged  on  them. 

Thus  spoke  the  judge  :  "  Produce  your  father 

At  once  before  me,  else  from  my  tribunal 

Do  I  dismiss  you.     Think  you  I  am  here 

To  guess  riddles  ?     Either  would  you  wait 

Until  the  genuine  ring  shall  speak  ?     But  hold! 

A  magic  power  in  the  true  ring  resides, 

As  1  am  told,  to  make  its  wearer  loved, 

Pleasing  to  God,  to  man.     Let  that  decide. 

Which  one  among  you,  then,  do  two  love  best? 

Speak  !*  Are  you  silent  ?    Work  the  rings  but  backward. 

Not  outward  ?     Loves  each  one  himself  the  best  ? 

Then  cheated  cheats  are  all  of  you  !     The  rings 

All  are  false.     The  genuine  ring  was  lost. 

And  to  conceal,  supply,  the  loss,  the  father 

Made  three  in  place  of  one. 

"  Go,  therefore,"  said  the  judge,  **  unless  my  counsel 
You'd  have  in  place  of  sentence.     It  were  this  : 
Accept  the  case  exactly  as  it  stands. 

J. — 


Caressing^  tender,  and  gentle  ciuotions  find  their  norttial  expression  in  high 
notes. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  21 

Each  had  his  ring  directly  from  his  father  ; 
Let  each  believe  his  own  is  genuine. 
'Tis  possible  your  father  would  no  longer 
His  house  to  one  ring's  tyranny  subject  ; 
And  certain  that  all  three  of  you  he  loved, 
Loved  equally,  since  two  he  would  not  humble 
That  one  might  be  exalted.     Let  each  one 
To  his  unbought,  impartial  love  aspire  ; 
Each  with  the  others  vie  to  bring  to  light 
The  virtue  of  the  stone  within  the  ring  ; 
Let  gentleness,  a  hearty  love  of  peace, 
Beneficence,  and  perfect  trust  in  God, 
Come  to  its  help.     Then,  if  the  jewel's  power 
Among  your  children's  children  be  revealed, 
I  bid  you  in  a  thousand  thousand  years 
Again  before  this  bar.     A  wiser  man  than  I 
Shall  occupy  this  seat  and  speak. 
Go!"     Thus  the  modest  judge  dismissed  them. 


THE  FIRST  BANJO. 

Irwin  Russell. 


(~^  O  way,  fiddle!  folks  is  tired  o'  hcarin'  you  a-squeak- 

in'. 
Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters— don't   you   heah  de  banjo 

speakin'  ? 
About  de  'possum's  tail  she's  gwine  to  lecter — ladies, 

listen  ! 
About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is  missin'. 


T 


yusf  in  frofiorlion  tn  our  insight  and  apprehension  o/  all  truth  do  -.vt  attain 
to  a  comprehension  of  a  particular  /rtt/A.  — Mks.  Frank  Stuart  Parker. 


22  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Dar's  gwine  to  be  a  oberflow,"  said  Noah,  lookin' 
solemn^ — 

For  Noah  tuk  de  "  Herald,"  an'  he  read  de  ribber  col- 
umn— 

An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  work  a-cl'arin'  timber-patches, 

An'  'lowed  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  de  steameh 
"  Natchez." 

or  Noah  kep'  a-nailin',  an'  a-chippin',  an'  a-sawin'  ; 
An'    all    de    wicked    neighbors    kep'    a-laughin'    an'    a- 

pshawin'  ; 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em — knowin'  whut  wuz  gwine  to 

happen  ; 
An'  forty  days  an'  forty  nights  de  rain  it  kep'  a-drap- 

pin'. 

Now,  Noah   had   done   cotched   a   lot   ob   eb'ry  sort  o' 

beas'es, 
Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin',  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces  ! 
He  had  a  Morgan  colt,  an'  seb'ral  head  o'  Jarsey  cattle, 
An'  druv  'em  'board   de   Ark   as   soon's   he   heered   de 

thunder  rattle. 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin',  an'  a-sailin',  an'  a-sailin'  ; 
De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin'  ; 
De  sarpints  hissed,  de  painters  yelled — tell,  whut  wid 

all  de  fussin', 
You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah  de  mate  a-bossin'  'roun'  an' 

cussin'. 

Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut   wuz   runnin'   on   de 

packet. 
Got  lonesome  in   de  barber-shop,  an'  couldn't  stan'  de 

racket ; 


The  voice  decreases  in  intensity  in  proportion  as  it  rises  higher;  and^oti  ike 
other  hand,  it  increasesin  intensity  in  proportion  as  it  sinks  tower. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  23 

An'  so,  for  to  amuse  he-se'f,  he  steamed  some  wood  an' 
bent  it, 

An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made — de  fust  dat  wuz  in- 
vented. 

He  wet  de  ledder,  stretched  it  on  ;    made  bridge,  an' 

screws,  an'  apron  ; 
An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck — 'twuz  berry  long  an'  ta- 

p'rin'  ; 
He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to  ring 

it ; 
An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz,  how  wuz  he  gwine  to 

string  it  ? 


De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a-singin' ; 
De  ha'rs  so  long,  an'  thick,  an'  strong, — des  fit  for  banjo- 

stringin'  ; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  wash-day-dinner 

graces  ; 
An'  sorted  ob  'em  by  de  size,  from  little  E's  to  basses. 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig — 'twuz  "  Nebber 

min'  de  Wedder" — 
She  soun'  like  forty-Iebben  bands  a-playin'  all  togedder  ; 
Some  went  to  pattin',  some  to  dancin';  Noah  called  de 

figgers— 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob 

niggers  ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time — it's   mighty  strange — dere's  not 

de  slightes'  showin' 
Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-growin*. 


The  ivalk  is  temperamental^  as  much  an  indicator  py  the  habits,  character, 
and  emotions  as  is  the  voice. — Genevieve  Steubins. 


24  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE   GOVERNMENT   SPY. 

W.  W.  Story.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


T^AKE  a  cigar — draw  up  your  chair, 

There's  at  least  a  good  half-hour  to  spare. 
And  now,  as  that  friend  of  yours  has  gone. 
There's  a  word  I  must  whisper  to  you,  alone. 
That  fellfjw's  only  a  Government  Spy  ! 
Of  course  you're  surprised— there's  nothing  on  earth 
So  base  in  your  eyes  as  a  Government  Spy  ; 
But  listen.     I'll  spin  a  yarn  for  you. 
And  every  thread  of  it's  simply  true. 

'Tis  years  ago  I  knew  Giannone, 

A  capital  fellow  with  great  black  eyes, 

And  a  pleasant  smile  of  frank  surprise, 

And  as  gentle  a  pace  as  a  lady's  pony. 

Giannone  had  but  an  empty  head — 

But  then  the  worst  of  him  is  said  : 

A  better  heart,  or  a  readier  hand, 

You  never  would  see  in  our  English  land. 

Well,  it  happened  that  Hycombe  Wycombe  Brown, 

Of  the  Sussex  Wycombes,  a  man  about  town, 

Was  owing  Giannone  a  kind  of  debt 

For  buying  some  horses,  or  some  such  work. 

He  sent  him  a  card  of  defiance  one  day 

To  meet  him  at  point  of  the  knife — and  fork, 

And  settle  the  matter  without  delay. 

Giannone  accepted,  of  course,  and  then, 

He  invited  a  few  of  us  resident  men  ; 


Nature,  by  a  thousand  irrefutable  ejcamples,  prescribes  a  decrease  of  inten- 
sity (tn  music  decrescendo)  proportionate  to  the  ascensional  force  of  the  sounds 
— Uei.sarte. 


Wake!  For  the  Sun,  who  scattered  into  flight 
The  Stars  before  him  from  the  Field  of  Night, 
Drives  Night  along  with  them  from  Heaven. 


"Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore." 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  25 

And  among  them,  slim  and  sleek  and  sly, 

Was  your  pious  friend  with  his  balking  eye. 

The  dinner  was  good  and  all  were  merry. 

And  plenty  there  was  of  champagne  and  sherry  ; 

And  the  toasts  were  brisk  and  the  wine  was  good, 

And  we  all  took  quite  as  much  as  we  should. 

Then  we  went  to  cards  ;  but,  I'm  sorry  to  say, 

Brandy  was  ordered  to  whet  the  play  ; 

And  Giannone  drank  till  his  tongue  lost  its  rein, 

And  the  fire  had  all  gone  into  his  brain. 

And  names  he  called,  and  his  voice  was  high 

As  he  talked  of  Italian  liberty  ! 

And  cursed  the  priests  as  the  root  of  all  evil, 

And  sent  the  cardinals  all  to  the  devil. 

"  Better  dig  with  the  bayonet's  point  our  graves. 

And  die  to  be  freemen,  than  live  to  be  slaves  !" 

But  all  the  while  that  Giannone  let  fly 
These  arrows  of  his,  with  a  dead-cold  eye 
Your  friend  sat  playing,  and  now  and  then 
Gleamed  up  with  a  glance  as  sharp  as  a  pen 
That  seemed  to  write  down  every  word. 
And  then  looked  away  as  he  had  not  heard  ; 
And  whenever  he  opened  his  lips,  he  said 
Something  about  the  game, — "  You've  played 
A  heart  to  my  club  ;  we're  one  to  six  ; 
Yours  are  the  honors  and  ours  the  tricks." 

I  watched  him  well,  and  at  last  said  I 
To  myself,  "  The  rascal  must  be  a  spy." 
So  "  Zitto  !  Zitto  !  don't  be  so  rash. 


The  soul  in  its  highest  moods  translates  iisel/  by  fioising  its  agents.  Poise 
the  soul,  ami  the  ivhole  iimscular  system  is  in  action  to  poise  the  /•Otiy. — Moses 
True  Brown. 


26  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Giannone,"  I  cried  ;  "  who  knows  what  ear 
May  be  listening  at  the  door  to  hear?" 
And  then  with  a  laugh,  and  looking  straight 
At  \.\i\%  f riend  oi  yours,  with  his  face  sedate, 
I  added,  "Who  knows  but  there  may  be 
A  spy  even  here  in  this  company  ?" 

If  I  doubted  before  the  trade  of  your  friend, 

My  doubts  in  a  moment  had  their  end  ; 

For  a  glance  came  straight  up  into  my  eyes 

From  under  his  lids,  half  fear,  half  surprise. 

Then  turning  back  with  a  look  demure, 

And  a  deprecating,  pious  air. 

As  much  as  to  say,  "  We  must  not  care, 

Knowing  the  means  are  justified 

By  the  noble  end," — he  slowly  said, 

Speaking,  of  course,  about  the  game, 

"The  trick  is  mine — 'twas  the  knave  I  played." 

No  sooner  the  dread  word  "spy"  I  spoke. 

Than  Giannone's  discourse  like  a  pipe-stem  broke  ; 

"  Ah  !"  he  cried,  "  there's  a  dirty  trick 

In  the  very  word  that  makes  me  sick  ; 

You  English  don't  know  as  well  as  I 

The  slobber  and  slime  of  a  Government  Spy. 

"Ser  Serpente,  permit  me  now 

To  introduce  him — a  friend  of  mine — 

Smooth,  pale,  bloodless  lips  and  brow — 

A  long  black  coat,  whose  rubbed  seams  shine — 

Spots  on  his  waistcoat  of  grease  and  wine — 


The  thumb  is  the  thermometer  of  life  in  its  extending  progression,  as  it  is  of 
death  in  its  contracting  progression.— Xi^\JS,.\KYZ. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.  27 

A  tri-cornered  hat  all  rusty  witli  use — 

Long,  black,  coarse  stockings  and  buckled  shoes  ; 

Ah  !  so  polite  with  his  bows  and  smiles, 

And  his  sickening  compliments  and  wiles, 

He  dares  not  look  you  straight  in  the  eyes, 

But,  sidling  and  simpering,  askance  alway, 

He  oils  you  over  with  wheedling  lies, 

As  the  boa  slimes  ere  he  swallows  his  prey. 

Many  a  fellow  owes  him  his  death 

Just  for  a  strong  word,  spoken  may  be 

When  the  blood  was  hot  and  the  tongue  too  free. 

But  one  morning  they  found  him  taking  his  rest 

In  the  street,  with  a  dagger  stuck  in  his  breast. 

And  served  him  right,  say  you  and  I, 

It  was  only  too  easy  a  death  for  a  spy." 

At  this  your /r/V/z</ threw  down  his  card, 
Saying,  "  You've  won  to-night,  'tis  true. 
But  to-morrow  I'll  have  my  revenge  on  you." 
And  though  these  words  to  his  friend  he  spoke, 
He  looked  at  Giannone  so  sharp  and  hard, 
With  such  a  sinister,  evil  look, 
That  a  dark  suspicion  in  me  awoke. 

Two  days  after  I  went  to  see 
Whether  Giannone  would  walk  with  me. 
Two  sharp  bell-pulls  at  his  door  ; 
No  answer — gone  out  ;  then  one  pull  more. 
Then  slipped  a  slide  back  cautiously 
From  a  little  grated  hole — "Chi  e  ?" 
"  And  where  is  the  Signor  Padrone  ?"  I  cried. 
* 


In  all  the  normal  attitudes  of  the  le^'S,  the  wei£ht  is  borne  equally  on  both. 
— Genevieve  Steddins. 


28  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Ah  !"  with  a  sort  of  convulsive  groan, 

The  poor  old  servant,  sighing,  replied, 

"  Doesn't  your  Signoria  know — 

The  sbirri  came  here  yesterday, 

And  carried  the  caro  padrone  away  ; 

And  they've  rifled  his  desk  of  letters  and  all, 

And  taken  the  pistols  and  swords  from  the  wall, 

And  locked  up  the  room  with  a  great  red  seal 

Put  over  the  door  ;  and  they  scared  me  so 

With  threats,  if  I  dared  in  the  chamber  to  go, 

That  I'm  all  of  a  tremble  from  head  to  heel  ; 

And  oh,  I  fear,  Signore  dear. 

There's  some  dreadful  political  business  here." 

The  servant's  story  was  all  too  true  ; 

From  that  night  I  never  saw  him  again. 

Worse,  neither  I  nor  his  family  knew. 

And  Giannone  himself  is  as  ignorant  too — 

What  was  his  crime — what  done — what  said. 

That  drew  this  punishment  down  on  his  head. 

This  one  fact  alone  we  know. 

That  since  the  speech  of  that  famous  night 

Giannone  has  vanished  out  of  sight. 

And  has  gone  to  pass  a  year  or  more. 

In  a  building  where  the  Government  pay 

His  lodging  and  board  in  the  kindest  way. 

I  cannot  help  wishing  the  end  would  come 

Of  this  public  hospitality, 

And  that  poor  Giannone  was  free  to  go  home. 

But  when  will  that  be  ?  you  ask  me — Ah  ! 

That  is  the  question  ;  chi  lo  sa  ? 

Next  month — next  year — next  century  ! 


The  spirit  oj  God  is  inherent  in  all  things:  and  this  sfiirit  should,  at  a 
given  moment,  flash  its  splendors  in  the  eyes  o/  an  intellect  alike  submissive 
attentive,  patient,  and  suppliant. — Delsarte. 

. : ^ 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  29 

WHAT  AILED  THE  PUDDING. 


Jdskpiiink  Poi.i.ard. 


"  A  X  7" HAT  shall  we  have  for  dinner,  to-day  ?" 
Said  Mrs.  Dobbs,  in  her  pleasant  way; 
"  For  Sally  has  much  to  do,  and  would  wisli 
That  we'd  get  along  with  an  easy  dish — 
Something  that  wouldn't  take  long  to  prepare, 
Or  really  require  much  extra  care." 
Said  Mrs.  Dobbs:  "There  isn't  a  doubt 
But  what  we'd  all  fancy  a  stirabout  !" 

"  A  hasty  pudding  !     Hurrah  !   that's  nice  !" 
Exclaimed  the  girls  and  boys  in  a  trice. 
Then  Sally  put  on  the  biggest  pot. 
And  soon  the  water  was  boiling  hot, 
And  Mrs.  Dobbs  mixed  together  some  flour 
And  water,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
The  pudding  began  to  bubble  up  thick 
And  dance  about  with  the  pudding-stick. 

Said  Mr.  Dobbs,  as  he  made  a  halt  : 
"  Our  Sally  is  apt  to  forget  the  salt, 
So  I'll  put  in  a  pinch  ere  I  leave  the  house." 
And  he  went  on  tip-toe,  as  still  as  a  mouse. 
And,  dropping  a  handful  in  very  quick, 
Stirred  it  well  about  with  the  putlding-stick. 
And  said  to  himself  :  "  Now,  isn't  this  clever  !" 
At  which  the  pudding  laughed  louder  than  ever. 

Then  Mrs.  Dobbs  came  after  a  while, 

And  looked  in  tlie  pot  with  a  cheer)'  smile. 


Man  can  only  juJge  o/ivhat  is  hy  what  he  can  txf>tritnce,  and  l<y  the  use  he 
is  enabled  to  make  of  that  experience,  through  the  action  of  the  faculties.— 
Mks.  Frank  Sii'aki-  Farkek. 


30  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  thought  how  much  she'd  enjoy  the  treat, 
And  how  much  tlie  children  would  want  to  eat; 
Then  said:  "  Our  Sally  has  one  great  fault — 
She  is  very  apt  to  forget  the  salt  I" 
And  into  the  hasty  pudding  was  sent 
A  handful  of  this  ingredient. 

John,  George,  and  Jennie,  and  Bess,  in  turn, 
Gave  the  stick  a  twist,  lest  the  pudding  burn  ; 
For  oh!  how  empty  and  wretched  they'd  feel 
If  anything  ruined  their  noonday  meal  ! 
And  each  in  turn  began  to  reflect. 
And  make  amends  for  Sally's  neglect. 
For  the  girl  was  good,  but  she  had  one  fault — 
She  was  very  apt  to  forget  the  salt ! 

But  Sally  herself,  it  is  strange  to  say, 
Was  not  remiss  in  her  usual  way  ; 
But  before  she  went  to  her  up-stairs  work 
She  threw  in  a  handful  of  salt  with  a  jerk, 
And  stirred  the  pudding,  and  stirred  the  fire, 
Which  made  the  bubbles  leap  higher  and  higher. 
And  as  soon  as  the  clock  struck  twelve  she  took 
The  great  big  pot  off  the  great  big  hook. 

It  wasn't  scorched  !  Ah  !  that  was  nice  ! 

And  one  little  dish  would  not  suffice 

Mr.  or  Mrs.  Dobbs,  I  guess, 

John,  or  George,  or  Jennie,  or  Bess  ; 

And  as  for  Sally,  I  couldn't  say 

How  much  of  the  pudding  she'd  stow  away. 

For  she  was  tired  and  hungry,  no  doubt. 

And  very  fond  of  this  stirabout. 


Vulgar  and  uncultured  people^  as  well  as  children,  seem  to  act  in  regard  to 
an  ascensional  vocal  progression  in  an  inverse  sense  to  -well-educated,  or,  at 
any  rate,  affectionate  persons,  such  as  inothers  and /ond  nurses. — DelsaRTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  31 

A  happier  group  you'd  ne'er  be  able 

To  find  than  sat  at  the  Dobbses'  table, 

With  plates  and  spoons  and  a  hungry  wish 

To  eat  their  fill  of  the  central  dish. 

But  as  Mr.  Dobbs  began  to  taste 

The  pudding,  he  dropped  iiis  spoon  in  haste; 

And  of  all  the  children  did  likewise, — 

As  big  as  saucers  their  staring  eyes. 

Said  Mrs.  Dobbs,  in  a  voice  not  sweet : 
"  Why,  it  isn't  fit  for  the  pigs  to  eat !" 
And  I  doubt  if  an  artist  would  e'er  be  able 
To  depict  their  looks  as  they  left  the  table. 
Said  Sally:  "  I  thought  it  would  be  so  nice! 
But  I  must  have  salted  that  pudding  twice  !" 
And  none  of  the  family  mentioned  that  they 
Had  a  hand  in  boiling  tlie  dinner  that  day. 


LOST. 


"  I  "HE  chill  November  day  was  done, 

The  dry  old  leaves  were  flying; 
When,  mingled  with  the  roaring  wind, 

I  heard  a  small  voice  crying. 
And  shivering  at  the  corner  stood 

A  child  of  four  or  over; 
No  cloak  nor  hat  her  small,  soft  arms 

And  wind-blown  curls  to  cover. 

With  one  wee  hand  she  pushed  them  back, 
She  slipped  in  mine  the  other; 


Paniotnimic  expression,  like  every  other  expression  of  man,  is  a  tnanifesta- 
twH  of  the  activity  of  the  being,  soul.  ego.  or  animating  principle,  by  the 
activity  of  the  ^(x/y.  — Frank  Stuart  Parker. 


32  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Half  scared,  half  trustingly,  she  said, 
"  Oh,  please,  I  want  my  mother !" 

"  Tell  me  your  street  and  number,  pet; 
Don't  cry,  I'll  take  you  to  it." 

Sobbing,  she  answered:  "I  forget; 
The  organ  made  me  do  it. 

"  He  came  and  played  at  Miller's  steps, 

The  monkey  took  the  money; 
And  so  I  followed  down  the  street, 

That  monkey  was  so  funny. 
I've  walked  about  a  hundred  hours, 

From  one  street  to  another; 
The  monkey's  gone,  I've  lost  my  flowers — 

Oh,  please,  I  want  my  mother  !" 

The  sky  grew  stormy;  people  passed. 

All  muffled,  homeward  faring; 
"  You'll  have  to  spend  the  night  with  me," 

I  said,  at  last,  despairing. 
I  tied  her  kerchief  round  her  neck — 

"What  ribbon's  this,  my  blossom?" 
"  Why,  don't  you  know  ?"  she  smiling  asked. 

And  drew  it  from  her  bosom. 

A  card  with  number,  street,  and  name: 

My  eyes,  astonished,  met  it; 
"  For,"  said  the  little  one,  "you  see 

I  might  sometimes  forget  it. 
And  so  I  wear  a  little  thing 

That  tells  you  all  about  it; 
For  mother  says  she's  very  sure 

I  would  get  lost  without  it." 


When  the  head  moves  in  an  inverse  direction  from  the  object  that  it  exatn- 
ines,  it  is  frotn  a  selfish  standpoint  ;  and  -when  the  examiner  bends  toward 
the  object,  it  is  in  cotttempt  o/ self  that  the  object  is  viewed. — Delsakte. 


DELS  ARTE  REClTAriON  BOOK.  n 

.     THE  MINUET. 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


/GRANDMA  told  me  all  about  it, 

^-^      Told  me  so  I  couldn't  doubt  it, 

How  she  danced — my  grandma  danced — long  ago  ; 

How  she  held  her  pretty  head — 

How  her  dainty  skirt  she  spread — 

How  she  turned  her  little  toes — 

Smiling  little  human  rose— long  ago. 

Grandma's  hair  was  bright  and  sunny  ; 
Dimpled  cheeks,  too — ah,  how  funny  ! 
Really  quite  a  pretty  girl — long  ago  ! 
Bless  her  !  why  she  wears  a  cap, 
Grandma  does,  and  takes  a  nap 
Every  single  day  ;  and  yet 
Grandma  danced  the  minuet — long  ago. 

Now  she  sits  there,  rocking,  rocking, 

Always  knitting  grandpa's  stocking 

(Every  girl  was  taught  to  knit — long  ago)  ; 

Yet  her  figure  is  so  neat, 

And  her  way  so  staid  and  sweet, 

I  can  almost  see  her  now 

Bending  to  her  partner's  bow — long  ago. 

Grandma  says  our  modern  jumping, 
Hopping,  rushing,  whirling,  bumping, 
Would  have  shocked  the  gentle  folk — long  ago. 
No  ;  they  moved  with  stately  grace, 
Everything  in  proper  place  ; 


//■  lue  desire  that  a  thing  be  always  yetitembered^we  must  not  say  it  in 
words:  we  must  lei  it  be  divined,  revealed  by  gesture.  Wherever  there  is  an 
ellipse  in  a  discourse, gesture   must  intervene  to  explain  this  ellipse.— Delav- 

MOSNE. 


34 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATluiV  BOOK. 

J.  N.  HUMMEL. 


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DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  35 

Gliding  slowly  forward,  tlien 

Slowly  courtesying  back  again — long  ago. 

Modern  ways  are  quite  alarming, 
Grandma  says  ;  but  boys  were  charming — 
Girls  and  boys  I  mean,  of  course — long  ago. 
Bravely  modest,  grandly  shy. 
What  if  all  of  us  should  try 
Just  to  feel  like  those  who  met 
In  the  graceful  minuet — long  ago? 

With  the  minuet  in  fashion. 

Who  could  fly  into  a  passion  ? 

All  would  wear  the  calm  they  wore — long  ago. 

In  time  to  come,  if  I,  perchance. 

Should  tell  my  grandchild  of  our  dance, 

I  should  really  like  to  say, 

"  We  did  it,  dear,  in  some  such  way — long  ago." 

[The  reader  is  to  dance  at  the  end  of  each  stanza.  The  music  is  for 
the  dancinjj:  only,  and  is  not  to  be  played  during  the  reciting.  If  re- 
cited in  the  costume  of  a  last  century  belle,  with  powdered  hair,  the 
effect  will  be  heightened.] 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  DANCING  THE  MINUET. 


James  Brooks. 

Arranged  for  four  couples  in  a  column,  or  as  many 
columns  of  four  couples  each  as  there  is  room  for, 
formed  thus: 

FRONT. 

X O         X O 

X O        X o 

X O        X o 

X O        X o 


The  artist  should  aim  to  manifest  human  nature  in  its  three  modalitieSy  in 
its  three  phases  which  the  muster  named  life,  soul,  and  mind.  In  other 
•words,  the  beings  physical,  tnoral,  and  mental. — Ar.nal'D. 


36  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

All  courtesies  are  begun  by  ladies  sliding  the  right 
foot  to  the  side. 

All  bows,  after  the  first,  are  begun  by  gentlemen 
sliding  the  left  foot  to  the  side. 

All  other  movements  are  begun  by  both  gentlemen  and 
ladies  with  the  right  foot,  unless  otherwise  directed. 

Gentlemen  will  alwaj'^s  place  right  hand  on  their  hearts 
when  bowing  to  partners. 

During  the  introduction,  gentlemen  will  give  right 
hands  to  ladies'  left,  and  hold  the  hands  well  up  in  front, 
ready  to  begin. 

Walk  six  steps  forward  (closing  the  left  foot  up  to  the 
right,  in  first  position  for  sixth  count). 

Salute  to  the  front. 

Walk  six  steps  back  (turning  to  face  partner,  give  left 
hand  to  ladies'  left,  looking  at  partners  over  arms,  gen- 
tlemen close  left  up  to  right  for  the  sixth  count,  and  at 
the  same  time  face  partners;  ladies  step  with  left  foot 
for  the  sixth  count,  and  at  the  same  time  close  right  up 
to  left  to  face  partner). 

Salute  partners. 

Walk  six  steps  forward. 

Walk  six  steps  back  (face  partners  and  step  back  with 
left  foot  on  the  sixth  count,  swaying  the  body  backward 
on  the  left  foot  so  as  to  form  an  attitude,  right  toe 
pointed  in  fourth  position  in  front). 

Turn  partners  with  the  right  hand. 

Salute  partners. 

Chasse  to  the  left  (face  the  front  and  cross  hands  with 
partners,  right  hand  uppermost;  step  with  left  foot  to 
the  side  (count  one);  right  in  front  of  the  left  (count 
,two);  left  to  side  (count  three);  right  in  front  of  left 
(count  four);  left  to  the  side  (count  five);  face  partners, 
gentlemen  transferring  the  weight  of  the  body  to  the 
left  foot,  ladies  carrying  the  right  foot  forward,  right 
toe  pointed  in  fourth  position  (count  six). 

Turn  partners  half  around  (with  right  hand). 


The  shoulder  generally  rises  less  ivhen  the  head  retroacts  than  when  it  ad- 
z'ances  toward  the  object  of  its  conteviplation. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  37 

Chass^  to  the  right  (face  partners  at  the  fifth  count 
and  close  left  foot  up  to  the  right  in  first  position  for 
six). 

Salute  partners. 

Turn  partners  half  around  (with  right  hand). 

Reverse  the  half  turn  (without  disengaging  the  right 
hands,  the  lady  passing  under  the  upraised  right  arms, 
turning  to  the  right  and  stepping  back  for  five  and  si.x, 
steps  to  face  partner). 

Turn  partners  half  around  (with  left  hand). 

Salute  partners. 

Walk  past  partners  six  steps  (facing  partners,  walk  past 
partners,  gentlemen  passing  in  front  of  the  ladies  four 
steps;  step  with  right  foot  to  second  position,  five;  close 
left  foot  up  to  right,  six). 

Salute  in  the  direction  you  are  facing. 

All  turn  to  the  right  and  ic-alk  back  to  place  (ladies  pass- 
ing in  front,  finish  facing  partners). 

Salute  partners. 

Walk  six  steps  forward  (at  the  fifth  count  face  partners 
and  step  back  with  left  foot  to  fourth  position,  right  toe 
pointed  in  front  for  six). 

Turn  partners  (with  right  hand). 

Walk  back  to  places  six  steps  (gentleman  giving  left 
hand  to  lady's  riglit). 

Salute  partners. 

Turn  partners  half  around  (with  right  hand). 

Salute  partners. 

Turn  partners  to  places  (with  left  hand). 

Salute  partners. 

Moulinet  (cross  right  hands — the  first  and  second,  and 
the  third  and  fourth  couples  cross  right  hands  around 
to  the  left  (counting  i,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  8,  9,  10,  11),  dis- 
engage hands  and  step  back  with  left  foot,  leaving  right 
foot  pointed  in  the  centre — count  12). 

Moulinet  back  (cross  left  hands  and  salute  to  the 
front). 


A  per fectcd  voice  can  reveal  almost  everyihtitg  ivhich  human  nature  is  ca- 
pable 0/  thinking  or  feeling  or  being,  and  not  only  reveal  it,  but  also  wield  it 
as  an  instrument  of  influence  to  axvaken  in  the  auditor  correspondent  expe- 
riences.—Rv.\.  W.  R.  Al.GEK. 


38  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

SNOW-FLAKES  AND  SNOW- 
DRIFTS. 

A  STUDY  IN  ALLITERATION. 


Martha  Tyler  Gale. 


Asking  approval  of  alliteration 
Before  we  begin,  we  beg  benediction, 
Caution,  and  candor  from  critics  who  censure 
This  daring  description  of  delicate  snow-drifts. 

A  NGELIC  aeronaut,  airy  and  active, 

Aerial  avalanche,  alpine  and  awful, 
Beating  men,  buffeting,  blinding,  and  burying, 
Bountifully  broadcast,  brilliant  in  beauty. 
Bird-like  and  buoyant,  yet  bringing  a  blessing, 
Coming  so  constantly,  crowding  and  chasing, 
Cov'ring  all  closely  with  cerements. 

Carving  such  curious  conceits  on  the  casements, 
Crystals,  once  clear-cut,  now  crushed  by  collision, 
Coronets,  crested  and  cast  from  cloud-ceilings, 
Can  still  be  so  cold,  calm,  chilling,  and  cheerless. 
Driving  its  drifts  down  destructively,  drearily. 
Dismally  direful,  dreadfully  deadly. 
Daintily  draping  and  decking  dull  deserts. 
Elfish,  erratic,  empyreal! 

Elegant,  exquisite,  endlessly  eddying, 
Frosting  the  farms,  and  the  firs,  and  the  fences, 
Fringing  the  forests  with  fantastic  fern-fronds, 
Flying  all  feathery,  fleecy,  and  foamy, 
Flinging  its  flakes  forward,  faultless  as  flowers, 


A  rt,  notwithstanding  the  antiquity  of  its  origin,  is  stili,  from  a  didactical 
\  point  o/vieiVy  unknown  even  to  those  ivho profess  it. — Delsarte. 


DELSAR'i£.   kECITATION  BOOK.  39 

Falling  from  far,  from  full-fed  frosty  fountains, 
Glittering,  glistening,  gossamer,  gauz}'-, 
Gems  that  are  God-given,  gracefully. 

Hastening  from  heaven's  brow,  hurrying  headlong, 
Hiding  the  heads  of  the  hills  all  so  hoary, 
Heaving  its  heaps  up  higher  and  huger. 
Icily  idling  in  isolate  islands. 
Jauntily  joining  in  jollity  joyous. 
Kissing  the  kings,  the  kittens,  and  king-birds; 
Lasses  and  lads  love  to  laugh  at  its  lightness, 
Lily-like,  lovely,  yet  lawless. 

Loitering  lazily,  lingering  lovingly 
In  myriad  mazes  or  in  mountainous  masses. 
Noiselessly  nestling  'neath  the  nooks  of  nature, 
Omniform  opulent, — only  observe  it ! 
Perfectly  pure,  so  pale,  pearly,  and  peerless. 
Poising  on  pinnacles,  perched  picturesquely. 
Playing  with  plumage  and  pinions  on  pine  peaks, 
Quelling  by  quantity,  quietly. 

Roving  round  restlessly,  rioting  ruthlessly. 
Sweeping  on  swiftly  and  surging  on  sea-like, 
Scattered  so  spray-like,  sailing  so  swan-like, 
Stealing  in  stillness,  slow,  solemn,  and  shroud-like. 
Softly  and  silently  shed  by  sweet  seraphim. 
Showered  so  strangely,  shining  and  star-like. 
Towering  and  tipping  the  turrets  of  temples, 
Tossing  in  tempests  terrific. 

Toying  tenderly  with  tracery  tasteful, 
Transiently  trimming  the  twigs  and  the  tree-tops, 


Here  is  the  grand  laiv  of  organic  gymnastics:  The  triple  movetnent^  the 
triple  language  of  the  organs  is  eccentric^  concentric,  or  normal,  according  as 
it  is  the  expression  of  life,  soul,  or  spirit. — Dei.aimosne. 


40  DELS  ARTE  ^ECITAT/ON  BOOK. 

Unwearied,  unsullied,  unspotted,  unearthly, 

Volatile  visitant, — volley  of  vapor; 

Voyaging  vaguely,  all  visible  veiling. 

Waving  white  wings,  and  wrathfully  warning, 

Whirled  by  wild  winds  the  world  wrapping  so  whitely, 

Youthfully  yielding,  sent  yearly  for  yule-time. 

From  the  zone  of  the  zenith  blown  zigzag  by  zephyrs. 


PLAYING  SCHOOL. 


LiDA  P.  Caskin. 


""I  "'WO  little  tots  on  the  carpet  at  play, 

Tired  of  their  usual  games,  one  day, 
Said  one  to  the  other:  "  Let's  play  stool; 
I'll  be  teacher,  and  don't  you  fool, 
But  sit  up  nice,  like  a  sure  'nough  stolar; 
You'll  miss  your  lesson,  I  bet  you  a  dollar," 
Casting  about  for  a  word  to  spell, 
Blue  eyes  on  puss  and  her  kitten  fell; 
As  an  object  lesson  they  pose  with  grace. 
The  mamma  washing  her  baby's  face. 
"Spell  Tat,"  the  teacher  grandly  gives  out; 
"Quick,  now;  mind  what  you're  about." 
The  "scholar,"  failing  with  ignominy, 
Is  sorely  shaken  and  dubbed  a  ninny. 
The  word  repeated  again,  she  fails. 
When  the  scene  on  the  rug  again  avails. 
And  the  teacher  relents,  conscience-smitten: 
"If  you  tan't  spell  Tat,  then  spell  Titten!" 


The  powers  of  art  are  the  wings  of  the  soul. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  41 

THE  JOKER'S  MISTAKE. 

AN  EXCORE  PANTOMIME. 


Lemuel  B.  C.  Josephs. 


[The  pantomimiSt  is  supposed  to  have  played  a  joke  and  is  at  first  so 
overcome  with  the  ridiculous  side  of  it  that  he  is  unable  to  see  just  how 
the  victim  has  taken  it.  Gradually  it  dawns  upon  him  that  the  joke  has 
been  resented,  and  from  surprise  his  feeling  changes  to  entreaty  for 
forgiveness,  instead  of  which  is  visited  upon  him  the  wrath  of  the  vic- 
tim. It  is  recommended  that  this  description  be  printed  on  the  pro- 
gram when  the  pantomime  is  given. — Editor.] 

T7  NTER  at  right  of  stage  as  if  followed  by  Mr.  Blank, 
^-^  at  whom  you  are  laughing  heartily.  All  the  panto- 
mime of  laughter  is  to  be  given  without  the  sound: 
mouth  open  wide;  eyes  nearly  closed;  head  thrown 
slightly  back;  shoulders  raised;  body  shaking  with  un- 
controlled laughter  (same  action  as  in  continued  cough- 
ing, except  that  the  mouth  is  open  wide,  lips  drawn 
back,  showing  teeth);  arms  hanging  relaxed. 

Stopping  in  walk  near  the  middle  front  of  stage,  turn 
slowly  tovvard  Blank,  taking  attitude  of  base  with  feet 
wide  apart,  weight  on  both,  right  arm  rising  to  point  at 
him,  while  the  head,  in  opposition,  is  moving  slightly 
forward,  so  that  the  forehead  is  farther  front  than  the 
chin,  eyes  wide  open  directed  to  Blank,  eyebrows  raised; 
Hold  attitude. 

Now  change  expression  of  face  to  pain  mingled  with 
laughter;  mouth  still  laughing  ;  rest  of  face  contracted 
as  in  pain.  Left  hand  then  presses  side  of  torso,  elbow 
out.  A  moment  later  bring  right  hand  also  to  side, 
head  falling  back  over  left  shoulder.     Hold  attitude. 

Right  hand  now  seeks  side  of  forehead;    head  falling 


Concentrated  passion  tends  to  explosion:  explosion  to  prostration.  Thus  the 
only  emotion  which  does  not  tend  to  its  o:vn  destruction  is  that  xvhich  is  per- 
fectly /^o/jft/.— Gbnevieve  Stkbbins. 


42  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

back  over  right  shoulder  ;  left  hand  reaching  out  for 
support  on  back  of  chair,  making  several  efforts  to  reach 
it  and  at  last  grasping  it.  Then  body  totters,  falling 
toward  chair;  head  dropping  farther  back,  right  hand 
catching  it  at  back,  face  completely  abandoned  to 
laughter.     Hold  attitude. 

Still  holding  chair,  knees  and  waist  relaxed,  stagger 
weakly  around  to  front  of  chair  and  drop  helplessly 
into  it,  head  falling  back,  arms  dropping  lifelessly  any- 
where they  will.  Still  keep  amused  expression  of  face, 
but  breathe  as  if  out  of  breath,  interrupting  the  even- 
ness of  the  respiration  now  and  then  by  shaking  with 
spasmodic  laughter.  \^Back  of  chair  toward  right  of  stagei\ 
Hold  attitude. 

Now  roll  the  head  on  back  of  chair,  and  lock  up 
toward  Blank  with  mouth  slightly  open,  corners  drawn 
down.  Just  for  an  instant  hold  this,  and  then,  dropping 
head  forward  on  chest,  shake  torso  and  head  violently 
with  laughter,  shoulders  up,  arms  rising  as  if  to  drop 
over  back  of  chair,  and  then  thrown  forcibly  down  to- 
hang  loosely  at  sides.  While  the  arms  are  going  down, 
the  head  rises  and  falls  back  helplessly,  eyes  almost 
closed  in  strongest  laughter.     Hold  attitude. 

Now,  with  serious  look  on  face,  suddenly  lift  head 
from  support  and  hold  it  still  to  listen.  Turn  to  look 
with  questioning  at  Blank.  The  eyes  move  first,  then 
the  head  follows,  and,  hands  holding  on  sides  of  chair, 
the  torso  turns  as  far  around  as  it  can.  Hold  this  atti- 
tude while  eyes  alone  move  to  look  at  left  into  space. 
Hold  attitude. 

Now  lean  back,  still  turned  toward  Blank,  and  reach 


The  shoulder  is  the  ihertnometer  of  passion  as  well  as  <>/"  sensibility:  it  is 
the  measure  o/  zehentence:  it  determines  the  degree  0/  heat  and  intensity . — 
Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  43 

« 
out  right  hand  as  to  receive  pardon  from  him,e3'es  look- 
ing earnestly  into  his  face,  lips  pouted.  Then  head 
drops  forward  slightly  as  in  shame,  while  the  right  hand 
changes  its  attitude  to  that  of  protest,  palm  out  and 
fingers  up.  Left  hand  now  placed  upon  heart,  elbow  out, 
followed  by  head  moving  over  right  shoulder,  rotating 
to  bring  face  again  to  Blank  with  eyes  expressing  sur- 
prise, lips  loosely  parted.     Hold  attitude. 

Now  sit  up  defiantly,  head  thrown  back  away  from 
Blank,  both  hands  coming  emphatically  to  upper  (men- 
tal) zone  of  torso,  elbows  raised.  Left  foot  moves  far- 
ther back  ;  head  drops  forward  toward  left,  right  hand 
rising  as  if  to  ward  off  something  that  threatens.  Drop 
from  sitting  position  to  kneeling  upon  left  knee,  both 
arms  rising  to  seek  forbearance,  head  thrown  up  in  en- 
treaty. Hands  then  clasp  suddenly  and  are  brought 
near  to  torso,  elbows  still  raised  in  front.  Head  now 
drops  on  chest,  followed  by  clasped  hands  dropping 
upon  right  knee.     Hold  attitude. 

Torso  turning  to  left  is  prevented  from  falling  by  the 
left  arm  reaching  the  floor  and  making  a  support  ;  face 
meanwhile  turns  toward  Blank,  head  hanging  back,  suf- 
fering and  entreaty  expressed,  right  hand  repelling  his 
words  (arm  straight).     Hold  attitude. 

Now  swing  body  from  last  attitude  so  as  to  fall  to 
floor,  forearms  crossed  to  form  cushion  for  head. 

To  rise  easily  from  this  position  to  quit  the  stage, 
raise  head  and  release  right  arm  ;  draw  left  hand  nearer 
to  brace  body  up  until  your  weight  is  on  left  knee  ; 
move  right  foot,  knee  having  risen,  forward  ;  free  left 
hand,  and,  changing  weight  to  right  foot,  rise  a^from 
kneeling. 


F-Tery  man  has  his  favorite  gesture:  and  were  it  possible  to  surprise  him, 
and  to  delineate  him  while  using  this  gesture,  it  would  furnish  the  key  to  his 
whole  character. — Lavatkr. 


44  DELSARTE   RECITATION  BOOK. 

SUGGESTION. 

In  the  practice  of  this  pantomime,  subtle  changes  of 
expression  and  enlargement  of  the  scene  by  the  intro- 
duction of  other  attitudes  will  suggest  themselves  to 
the  student.  The  writer  has  endeavored  merely  to  out- 
line the  work,  knowing  that  if  each  attitude  were  de- 
scribed in  all  its  details  these  dangers  might  arise:  either 
the  explanation  might  be  confusing,  or  it  would  make 
the  student  merely  mechanical,  or  it  would  not  be  read 
at  all.  The  most  important  thing  to  be  remembered  is 
that  the  situation  must  be  realized  by  the  student  ;  that 
is,  he  must  feel  that  certain  things  called  up  to  his  im- 
agination are  real^  and  let  his  well-trained  body  be  free 
to  obey  his  inner  states.  Each  expression  of  face,  body, 
and  limb  continues  until  contradicted. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR. 


Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


/^UT  from  tower  and  from  steeple  rang  the  sudden 

^-^^     New  Year  bells, 

Like  the  chorusing  of  genii  in  aerial  citadels; 

And,  as  they  chimed  and  echoed  overthwart  the  gulfs 

of  gloom, 
Lo,  a    brilliance  burst    upon    me,    and  a  masque  went 

through  the  room. 

First,  the  young  New  Year  came  forward  like  a  little 

dancing  child, 
And  his  hair  was  as  a  glory,  and  his  eyes  were  bright 

and  wild. 


It  is  clearly  easier  to  translate  a  language  than  to  ■write  it;  and  just  as  we 
must  learn  to  translate  be/ore  ive  can  learn  to  compose^  so  ive  must  become 
thoroughly  familiar  with  semeiotics  he/ore  trying  to  work  at  esthetics. — Del- 

SARTE. 


DBILSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  45 

And  he  shook  an  odorous  torcli,  cmd  he  laughed  but  did 

not  speak, 
And  liis  smile  went  softly  rippling  through  the  roses  of 

his  cheek. 


'Round   he  looked  across  his  shoulder — and   the  Spirit 

of  the  Spring 
Entered  slowly,  moved  before  me,  paused  and  lingered 

on  the  wing; 
And  she  smiled    and   wept   together,    with   a    dalliance 

quaint  and  sweet. 
And  her  tear-drops  changed  to  flowers  underneath  her 

gliding  feet. 

Then  a  landscape  opened  outward;  broad,  brown  wood- 
lands stretched  away 

In  the  luminous  blue  distance  of  a  windy,  clear  March 
day; 

Birds  flashed  about  the  copses,  striking  sharp  notes 
through  the  air; 

Danced  the  lambs  within  the  meadows;  crept  the  snake 
from  out  his  lair. 

Soft  as  shadows  sprang  the  violets,  thousands  seeming 

but  as  one; 
Flamed  the  crocuses  beside  them,  like  gold  droppings 

of  the  sun; 
And  the  Goddess  of  the  Spring  faded  where  the  leaves 

were  piled; 
And  the  New  Year  had  grown  older,  and  no  longer  was 

a  child. 


When  a  pupil  is  able  at  7vill  instantly  to  sttmnion  the  distinct  and  vivid 
picture  on  his  face  of  -whatever  state  of  feeling  calls  for  expression,  he  is  so 
far  forth  ready  for  entrance  on  his  professional  career.  — Rnv.  W.  R.  Algkr. 


46  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

II. 

Summer,  shaking  languid  roses  from  his  devv-bedabbled 

hair, 
Summer,  in    a   robe    of  green,   and    with  his  arms  and 

shoulders  bare. 
Next  came  forward,  flowers  bowed  beneath  a  crowd  of 

armored  bees; 
Long  grass  swaying  in  the  playing  of  the  almost  wearied 

breeze. 

Rapid,  rosy-tinted  lightnings,  where  the  rocky  clouds 

are  riven, 
Like    the    lifting   of    a  veil  before  the  inner  courts    of 

heaven; 
Silver  stars  in  azure  evenings,  slowly  climbing  up  the 

steep; 
Cornfields  ripening  to  the  harvest,  and   the  wide  seas 

smooth  with  sleep. 

Circled  with  those  living  splendors,  Summer  passed  from 

out  my  sight 
Like  a  dream  that  filled  with  beauty  all  the  caverns  of 

the  night! 
And  the  vision  and    the  presence    into    empty  nothing 

ran — 
And  the  New  Year  was  still  older,  and  seemed  now  a 

youthful  man. 

IIL 

Autumn!     Forth    from    glowing   orchards    stepped    he 

gayly  in  a  gown 
Of   warm   russet,  freaked  with  gold,  and  with   a  vision 

sunny  brown; 


The  characteristic  of  beauty  is  to  be  amiable:  consequently,  a  thing  is  ugly 
only  in  view  of  the  amiable  things  ivhich  ive  seek  in  beauty. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  47 

On  his  head  a  rural  chaplet,  wreathed  with  heavily 
drooping  grapes, 

And  broad  shadow-casting  vine  leaves  like  the  Bac- 
chanalian shapes. 

Fruits  and  berries  rolled  before  him  from  the  3'ear's  ex- 
hausted horn; 

Jets  of  wine  went  spinning  upward,  and  he  held  a  sheaf 
of  corn; 

And  he  laughed  for  very  joy,  and  he  danced  from  too 
much  pleasure, 

And  he  sang  old  songs  of  harvest,  and  he  quaffed  a 
mighty  measure. 

But   I  saw  the  woods    consuming    in    a    many-colored 

death — 
Streaks  of  yellow  flame    down-deepening  through   the 

green  that  lingereth. 
Sanguine  flashes,  like  a  sunset,  and  austerely  shadowing 

brown; 
And  I  heard  within  the  silence   the  nuts  sharply  rattling 

down. 

And  I  saw  the  long,  dark  hedges  all  alight  with  scarlet 
fire, 

Where  the  berries,  pulpy-ripe,  had  spread  their  bird- 
feasts  on  the  brier. 

All  too  soon  waned  Autumn,  vanished  over  misty  heath 
and  meres — 

And  the  New  Year  stood  beside  me  like  a  man  of  fifty 
years. 


Continued  indulgence  in  any  one  form  o/feeling  will  make  that  /eeling  the 
predominant  trait. — Genevievs  Stebbins. 


48  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

IV. 

In  a  foggy  cloud  obscurely  entered  Winter,  ashy  pale, 
And  his  step  was  hard  and  heavy,  and   he  wore  an   icy 

mail  ; 
Blasting  all  the   path   before   him,  leapt  a   black  wind 

from  the  North, 
And  from  stinging  drifts  of  sleet  he  forged  the  arrows 

of  his  wrath. 

Yet  some  beauty  still  was  found;  for  when  the  fogs  had 

passed  away, 
The  wide  lands  came  glittering  forward  in  a  fresh  and 

strange  array; 
Naked   trees   had  got  snow  foliage,  soft,  and  feathery, 

and  bright, 
And  the  earth  looked  dressed  for  heaven  in  its  spiritual 

white. 

But  the  face  of  Winter  softened,  and  his  lips  broke  into 
smiles. 

And  his  heart  was  filled  with  radiance  as  from  far-en- 
chanted isles; 

For  across  the  long  horizon  came  a  light  upon  the  way — 

The  light  of  Christmas  fires,  and  the  dawning  of  new 
day. 

And  Winter  moved  not  onward  like  the  rest,  but  made 

a  stand. 
And  took  the  spirit  of   Christmas,  as  a  brother,  by  the 

hand; 
And  together  toward  the  heavens  a  great  cry  of  joy  they 

sent — 

And  the  New  Year  was  the  Old  Year,  and  his  head  was 

gray  and  bent. 
4. 4. 

/■"Esthetics  determines  the  inherent  forms  oy  sentiment  in  viezu  0/  the  effects 
whose  truth  0/  relation  it  estimates. — Delsakte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  49 

Then  another  New  Year  entered,  like   another  dancing 

child, 
With  his  tresses  as  a  glory,  and   his  glances  bright  and 

wild; 
And  he  flashed  his  odorous  torch,  and  he   lauglied  out 

in  the  place, 
And  his  soul  looked  forth  in  joy  and  made  a  sunshine 

on  his  face. 

Out  from  spire,  and  from  turret,  pealed  the  sudden  New 
Year  bells, 

Like  the  distant  songs  of  angels  in  their  fields  of  aspho- 
dels; 

And  that  lustrous  child  went  sparkling  to  his  aged 
father's  side, 

And  tlie  New  Year  kissed  the  Old  Year,  and  the  Old 
Year  gently  died. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  JOHNS- 
TOWN FLOOD. 


MoNNiE  Moore. 


[During  that  awful  night  of  horror  a  woman  upon  a  trail  raft,  borne 
along  by  the  angry  waters,  was  heard  singing  this  old-time  hymn.] 

"  C^ESUS,  lover  of  viy  soul, 
J      Let  mc  to  Thy  bosom  fly." 
Hark  !  above  the  angry  tempest. 

And  the  waves  that  beat  the  shore, 
Comes  the  sound  of  some  one  singing, 

Sounds  a  voice  above  the  roar. 


Art  is  e.r/<ressioti,  involving  something  to  be  exfrresseJ,  and  <i  proper  form 
as  the  inciiiuiH  0/  e.xpr(ssio>t. — T.  M.  Balliet. 


50  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  the  watchers,  filled  with  horror, 

Mingled  with  a  breathless  awe, 
Heard  the  sweet  and  old-time  music. 

Though  the  singer  no  one  saw. 
Nearer,  nearer,  now  'tis  plainer; 

List  !  the  words  are  borne  along, 
As  a  soul  that's  fast  departing 

Seeks  her  Maker  with  a  song. 
And  her  gentle  spirit  passing 

From  its  home  of  earthly  clay, 
Soon  will  find  that  blessed  refuge, 

Soon  will  tread  the  shining  way. 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none, 
Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee.'' 
Helpless?  no,  thy  faith  will  strengthen 

Thee,  and  banish  every  fear. 
And  the  storm  that  beats  above  thee 

Brings  thee  heaven  still  more  near. 
Oh  !  the  anguish;  oh  !   the  weeping 

Of  that  awful,  dreary  time; 
But  like  oil  upon  the  waters. 

Came  the  words  of  that  old  hymn. 
Though  they  knew  no  more,  forever. 

Would  the  singer  sweetly  tell 
Of  the  refuge  from  all  sorrow, 

Of  the  way  that  leads  from  hell. 

"  Leave,  oh  !  leave  tne  not  alone, 
Still  support  and  comfort  me." 
Not  alone  upon  the  waters. 

Still  thy  soul  thy  Lord  will  keep; 


A  rt  is  an  act  -whose  semeioUcs  characterizes  the  forms  produced  by  the  ac- 
tion of  powers^  -which  action  is  determined  by  asthetics,  and  the  causes  of 
-which  are  sought  out  by  ontology. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  FECI  TAT  JON  BOOK.  51 

And  His  liand  will  still  support  thee, 

Though  the  waves  toss  wild  and  steep. 
Frail  thy  bark,  but  great  His  mercy; 

And  thy  loved  ones  gone  before 
Will  behold  thy  face  in  rapture, 

Ere  this  long,  dark  night  is  o'er. 
Onward,  still,  the  singer  floating. 

Swirling,  changing  with  the  tide, 
Weak  and  frail,  alone  and  dying, 

Where  is  he  who  made  her  bride  ? 
Where  the  strong  arms  that  would  shield  her? 

Wlicre  the  broad  and  manl}'^  form 
That  would  brook  no  ill  or  danger. 

So  that  she  should  meet  no  harm  ? 


Tell  the  story,  oh,  ye  billows  ! 

Tliat  with  fury  round  her  play, 
Tell  how  battling  bravely,  grandly, 

Did  he  give  his  life  away. 
Tell  the  story  of  his  daring. 

How  he  sternly  baffled  death. 
As  he  strove  to  save  his  dear  ones 

With  his  latest  fleeting  breath; 
How  the  shining  baby  ringlets 

That  were  pillowed  on  his  breast, 
Lie  there  still  in  death's  grim  silence. 

That  togethef  now  they  rest. 
While  the  gentle  little  mother 

Floats  away,  alone,  away, 
Through  the  storm  and  through  the  darkness 

To  the  golden  endless  day. 


All  gestures  tnay  he  di~'ided  into  two  cliisses:  Gestures  which  tnake  refer- 
ence to  ohjects:  gestures  which  ci/ress  the  states  or  conditions  of  the  being.— 
Moses  Tri'e  Bkown. 


52  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  adown  the  shore  the  watchers 

Greet  the  singer  and  her  song, 
Which  no  tempest  sound  can  deaden. 

As  the  years  shall  pass,  how  long 
Will  that  singer  be  remembered, 

Telling  from  the  gates  of  death 
Of  the  old-time  faith  and  duty 

That  makes  calm  the  latest  breath. 
And  the  sneers  that  men  may  offer, 

With  the  scholar's  logic  deep. 
Must  be  laid  aside  forever 

When  we  reach  our  final  sleep; 
And  the  faith  that  Jesus  taught  us, 

In  the  words  of  that  old  hymn. 
Is  the  faith  that's  surest,  safest. 

When  the  tempest  shuts  us  in. 

While  the  refuge  that  would  shelter 

Every  proud  and  wilful  head. 
Was  the  refuge  of  the  singer. 

And  her  soul  was  free  from  dread. 
As  above  the  tempest  sang  she. 

Sheltered  by  an  angel's  wing; 
While  her  last  words,  faintly  spoken. 

"  Simply  to  Thy  cross  I  cling, 
Simply  to  Thy  cross,  oh,  Saviour  !" 

Seemed  they  all  to  hear  her  say, 
As  the  dark  waves  closed  above  her. 

As  they  bore  her  form  away. 
And  through  all  that  time  of  sorrow. 

Through  the  days  of  gloom  and  woe. 


The  Beautiful  is  an  absolute  principle'  it  is  the  essence  of  bein^,  the  life 
of  their  functions.  Beauty  Js  a  consequence,  an  effect^  a  form  of  the  Beauti- 
ful.— Df.lsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  53 

Seemed  they  still  to  hear  that  singer 

Singing  softly,  sweet  and  low: 
"  Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring. 
Simply  to  Thy  cross  I  cling." 


PERDITA. 


A    COSTUME  STATUE  RECITATION. 


Mrs.  W.  R.  Joxes. 
T  BREATHE,  I  move,  I  live! 

My  pulses  throb,  my  heart  begins  to  beat! 
I  feel  the  hot  blood  mounting  to  my  cheeks! 
My  nerves  awake  with  strange  electric  thrill! 
My  limbs  succumb  to  this  new  power. 
And  bend  obedient  to  my  will! 
Oh,  this  is  life!  my  wild  desire,  my  bitter-sweet; 
Oh,  mad  delight!     I  kneel  to  welcome  thee; 
I  clasp  thee  to  my  passionate  heart; 
I  laugh  to  hear  the  echoes  of  my  voice; 
I  weep  to  feel  the  hot  tears  on  my  cheek, 
I  move  and  turn  to  know  that  I  am  free  ! 

A  sudden  mem'ry  flashes  through  my  brain 

And  checks  my  gladness  at  its  birth. 

Oh!  once  before  I  lived  in  this  glad  world. 

As  glad  as  now.     Perdita  was  my  name, 

Perdita — lost?     Aye,  lost!     Well  named  was  I, 

Since  lost  I  am  to  all  I  knew  and  loved  ! 

I  loved  Justitiii — loved  him  ?     Love  him  still! 

Moons  waxed  and  waned  above  our  happy  heads, 

Till  June  breathed  over  us  her  am'rous  sighs. 

And  roses  blushed  to  greet  her;  then  we  made  ready 

+ ^ 

The  coming  reaction  from  the  modern  scientific  era  must  ie  steadily  to^vard 
a  time  when  there  ivitl  be  a  better  care  /or  our  bodies  and  vital  needs,  and 
truer  appreciation  of  the  ar/j.  — F"kanklin  H.  Sarc;ent. 


54  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

For  the  marriage  rites.     The  light-winged  hours  flew  by 
Until  the  strange,  glad  evening  came. 
Crowned  with  pale  roses,  'mid  the  happy  guests 
I  stood,  trembling,  expectant,  awaiting  my  lord. 
"  He  comes,"  they  cried,  and  parted  to  make  room. 

Into  my  glad  eyes  some  one  was  looking. 

It  was  not  he,  but  Vindex,  rejected  suitor,  spurned  long 
since! 

"  What  dost  thou  here  ?" 

"Justitia  is  false  to  thee;  this  hour  is  wedded  to  an- 
other," 

He  whispered  low  into  my  dull  ear. 

"Justitia  false  to  me!   this  hour  is  wedded  to  another! 

Impossible!"     "  The  trailing  fire  of  their  mad  revelry 

See  thou  here!  Justitia  forgets  Perdita  in  the  merry 
dance. 

Or  in  the  soft  caresses  of  his  love, 

Or  remembers  but  to  scorn.     He  mocks  thee  waiting. 

Though  spurned  by  thee,  I  come  to  shield  thee 

From  the  jeering  crowd.     Let  Vindex  share  thy  shame, 

Or  interpose  his  ready  arm  'twixt  thee 

And  mocking  insult.  Let  Hymen's  altar  not  be  decked 
in  vain. 

To  shield  and  save  thy  honor,  that  is  all  I  ask. 

When  thou  shalt  bear  my  name,  swift  as  a  falling  star 

I'll  quit  thy  sight;  can  love  do  more?" 

Stung  into  madness  by  the  treachery  of  him  I  loved 
Oh!  better  than  the  red  blood  of  my  heart. 
Better — hear  it,  ye  gods! — than  all  my  hopes  of  bliss — 
"  'Tis  well!"  I  cried;  "let  the  procession  move! 


Beauty  is  that  reason  itself  which  presides  at  the  creation  of  things. — Del- 

SARTE. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  55 

Jiistitia,  let  him  not  once  be  named  among  us. 
Once  lord  of  my  heart,  henceforth  accursed! 
Vindex,  whom  you  all  know  has  loved  me  long, 
The  noble  scion  of  a  noble  house,  does  me  the  honor 
To  make  me  his  bride.     Let  the  procession  move!" 

But  when  the  merry  wedding  guests  had  gone. 
And  echoes  of  tlie  dance  and  jest  had  died  away, 
I  stood  alone  within  my  bridal  chamber. 
Decked  with  white  roses  for  my  recreant  love, 
Sadder  than  death.     The  midnight  bell  was  tolling. 
Shrouded  by  curtains  of  the  night,  Vindex  stole  to  my 

side. 
"  What  dost  thou  here  ?     Thy  promise  !     Go  !" 
"Thou  art  my  wife  !"     He  was  my  husband, 
I,  his  frightened,  shrinking  wife  ! 
"  My  soul's  sweet  purity  denies  the  bond. 
Betrayed  by  him  I  loved,  oh,  better  than  my  life, 
I  have  no  tongue  to  tell  the  madness  that  drove  me 
To  be  thy  wife.     Oh  !  I  beseech  thee,  go  ! 
I  do  not  love  thee  !     Some  law  shall  make 
This  hateful  marriage  null.     This  cliamber 
With  white  roses  decked  to  celebrate  our  love 
Is  but  the  symbol  of  the  death  of  joy,  of  hope,  of  love, 

to  me. 
I  beseech  thee,  leave  me  to  my  madness,  my  despair!" 

"  I  am  thy  husband,  lord  of  thy  house,  lord  of  thy  life. 

Perdita,  listen.     Once  at  thy  feet  I  lay, 

Imploring  but  a  word,  a  smile. 

What  didst  thou  ?     Spurned  me  from  thy  sight 

As  thou  wouldst  spurn  a  worm. 


Wherever  beauty  is  found  there  must  be  the  two  factors — the  idea  and  the  \ 
\form,  so  united  that   the  latter  is  the  expression  of  the  former. — T.  M.  Bal- 
LlET. 


56  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

I  swore  eternal  vengeance   that  thou   should'st  be  my 

bride; 
I  have  performed  the  vow.     As  fair  as  false 
And  false  as  hell,  thou'rt  mine  by   means   as   false   as 

thou. 
Justitia  lies  in  chains,  entrapped  by  servitors  of  mine. 
He  writhes,  and  prays  to  die  ;  calls  on  thy  name  ; 
Curses  thy  Vindex,  ha-ha!  while  I — feast  on  thy  lips, 
Sweet  lips,  still  sweeter  since  unwilling." 

"Oh!  no,  no  !  traitor!  fiend!  Justitia!  Justitia!" 

Madly  I  fled  away  through  hall  and  corridor, 

Flying  as  flies  the  hunted  doe  by  blood-hounds  tracked; 

Crushing  the  roses  'neath  my  heedless  feet ; 

Tearing  my  costly,  pearl-set  bridal  robes  ; 

Hiding  in  ghostly  shadows  dim  ; 

Holding  my  panting  breath  with  close-clinched  teeth  ; 

Doubling  upon  my  track,  by  terror  urged, 

Pursued,  o'ertaken,  breathless,  exhausted, 

At  his  feet  I  fell  with  one  imploring  cry  : 

"  Oh,  Vindex,  pity  me  !"     "  Thou'rt  mine,"  he  hissed, 

And  stooped  to  kiss  me.     Away  I  sprang  again, 

New  nerved  by  touch  so  foul. 

"  Oh,  heaven  !"  I  cried,  "  make  me  unfeeling  marble. 

Insensate  to  his  loathsome  kiss  !" 

'Twas  done  !  rigid  as  death  I  stood. 

Marble  cold  my  cheek  and  lip. 

Marble  my  heart,  nor  hate,  nor  love  could  know. 

Unmoved  I  saw  the  frightened  Vindex  stand  aghast ; 

Unmoved  I  heard  Justitia  come  and  fall  and  weep. 


The  shoulder,  in  eveyy  ittan  ivho  is  iiieved  or  agitated,  rises  sensibly,  his 
will  playing  na  part  in  the  ascension:  the  siiccessi^'e  developments  of  this  in- 
voluntary act  are  in  absolute  proportion  to  the  passional  intensity  ivhose  nu- 
meric measure  they  /orm;  the  shoulder  may,  there/ore,  be  fitly  called  the 
thermometer  of  sensibility. — Delsarte. 


JEWEL  SCENE   IN   "FAUST. 


PRAYING    HANDS. 
By  Albrecht  Diirer. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  57 

In  a  fair  niche  in  Art's  great  temple  placed 

I  saw  men's  faces  come  and  go, 

Like  shadows  of  a  long-forgotten  dream. 

Wrapped  in  an  ecslacy  of  bliss  I  stood, 

Indifferent  how  the  hours  sped  by. 

My  soul  seemed  trembling  in  an  upper  world, 

Twin  sister  to  the  beams  of  stars, 

Wooed  by  the  chaste  moon's  silvery  light, 

Or  hushed  to  rest  by  southern  winds 

That,  murm'ring  in  the  dusky  pines, 

Sang  low.     Secrets  I  heard  of  upper  air, 

Secrets  of  stars  and  planets  there  ; 

Secrets  of  songs  that  wild  birds  sing. 

And  why  the  nightingale  complains. 

But  to-night  a  white  star  has  leaned  out  of  heaven  ; 

It  has  beckoned  to  me,  is  beckoning  still. 

With  grief,  or  with  joy,  or  with  love  overburdened. 

It  is  breaking  its  heart  its  secret  to  tell. 

Hush  thy  babble,  oh,  fountain!  let  me  listen,  let  me  listen. 

Be  still,  oh,  night-winds  !  in  thy  dusky  pines  ; 

Beat  not  so  loud  and  so  fast,  my  poor  heart  ! 

Some  one  is  coming  ;  this  white  star  is  his  message. 

Justitia  !  Justitia  !  my  lover  !  my  lover  ! 

Far  off  now,  now  nearer  thy  footstep  I  hear.  \ 

Come  quicker  !     White  star,  give  him  these  kisses. 

And  tell  him  I  live  and  I  love  him  ! 

Oh  !  weave  me  a  veil  of  the  mists  of  the  morning 

To  hide  these  liot  blushes.     Stay  still  on  my  forehead 

Marble  whiteness  and  peace,  that  there  he  may  kiss  me 

And  call  me  his  angel,  his  bride  as  pure  as  the  snow  ! 


In  proportion  to  the  depth  and  majesty  o/  the  emotion  ivill  be  the  deliberate- 
ness  and  sloviness  of  the  motion.  In  proportion  to  the  superjiciality  and  ex- 
plosiveness  0/ the  emotion  rvill  be  the  velocity  0/  the  motion.  The  longer  an 
ngent  of  e.xpression  is  held  at  rest,  the  greater  will  le  its  motion  when  re- 
leased.— Moses  True  Brown. 
+ 


58  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Justitia  !  oh,  my  beloved  ! 

The  winds  have  sighed  themselves  to  rest, 

The  moon  has  kissed  the  sea, 

As  I  shall  sigh  upon  thy  breast 

And  lose  myself  in  thee  ' 


WHY     MY    FATHER     LEFT    THE 
ARMY. 


Charles  Lever.     Arranged  by  John  A.  MacCabe. 


"  Out  by  the  piper  that  played  before  Moses,  it's  more 
whipping  nor  gingerbread  is  going  on  amongst 
sodgers,  av  ye  knew  but  all,  and  heard  the  misfortune 
that  happened  to  my  father." 

"  And  was  he  a  sodger?"  inquired  one. 

*'  Troth  was  he,  more  sorrow  to  him,  and  wasn't  he 
almost  whipped,  one  day,  for  doing  what  he  was  bid 
Maybe  ye  might  like  to  hear  the  story,  and  there's  in- 
struction in  it  for  yes,  too. 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  many  years  ago  my  father  listed  in 
the  North  Cork,  just  to  oblige  Mr.  Barry;  'for,'  says 
he,  '  Phil,'  says  he,  '  it's  not  a  sodger  ye'll  be  at  all,  but 
my  own  man,  to  brush  my  clothes  and  go  errands,  and 
the  like  o'  that.  Well,  my  father  agreed,  and  Mr.  Barry 
was  as  good  as  his  word. 

"  Well,  for  three  years  this  went  on  as  I'm  telling, 
when  one  evening  there  was  a  night  party  patrolling, 
with  Captain  Barry,  for  six  hours  in  the  rain,  and  the 
captain,  God  be  marciful   to    him,  tuk  cowld  and  died: 


When  a  tnan  says  to  you  in  interjeciive  forvt^  "  I  loz'e^  I  suffer,  I  atn  de- 
lighted.^^ etc.,  do  not  believe  him  if  his  shoulder  remains  in  a  normal  atti- 
tudf. — "Dfi  c;artk_ 


DELS  A  RTF.   RECITATION  BOOK.  59 

more  betoken,  lliey  said  it  was  drink,  but  my  father  says 
it  wasn't  ;  '  for,' says  he,  '  after  he  tuk  eight  tumblers 
comfortable,  I  mixed  the  ninth,  and  the  captain  waved 
his  hand  this  way,  as  much  as  to  say  he'd  have  no  more." 
Is  it  that  ye  mean,'  says  my  father,  and  the  captain 
nodded.  '  Musha,  but  it's  sorry  I  am,'  says  my  father, 
'to  see  you  this  way,  for  ye  must  be  bad  entirely  to 
leave  off  in  the  beginning  of  the  evening.'  And  thrue 
for  him,  the  captain  was  dead  in  the  morning. 

"  A  sorrowful  day  it  was  for  my  father,  when  he  died  ; 
it  was  the  finest  place  in  the  world  ;  little  to  do  ;  plenty 
of  divarsion  ;  and  a  kind  man  he  was.  Well,  when  the 
captain  was  buried,  my  father  hoped  they'd  be  for  let- 
ting him  away  ;  but  they  ordered  him  into  the  ranks  to 
be  drilled  just  like  the  recruits  they  took  the  day  be- 
fore. 

"  '  Musha,  isn't  this  hard,'  says  my  father  ;  '  here  I  am 
an  ould  vitrin  that  ought  to  be  discharged  on  a  pension, 
obliged  to  go  capering  about  practicing  the  goose  step, 
or  some  other  nonsense  not  becoming  my  age  nor  my 
habits  ;'  but  so  it  was.  Well,  this  went  on  for  some 
time,  and,  sure,  if  they  were  hard  on  my  father,  hadn't 
he  his  revenge  ?  for  he  nigh  broke  their  hearts  with  his 
stupidity  ;  oh!  nothing  in  life  could  equal  him  ;  devil  a 
thing,  no  matter  how  easy,  he  could  learn  at  all,  and, 
so  far  from  caring  for  being  in  confinement,  it  was  that 
he  liked  best.  Every  sergeant  in  the  regiment  had  a 
trial  of  him,  but  all  to  no  good,  and  he  seemed  striving 
so  hard  to  learn  all  the  while,  that  they  were  loath  to 
punish  him,  the  ould  rogue! 

"Well,  one  day  news  came  that  a  body  of  the  rebels, 
as    they  called   them,  was    coming    down    to   storm    the 

The  artistic  idea  within  must  ybrvi  the  outtuard  expression^  but  that  idea 
sei/tms  in  genius  to  he  unconscious:  you  cannot  mentally  plan  it  at  the  tnoment 
0/ its  execution. — Genevieve  Steubins. 


6o  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

town.  The  whole  regiment  was,  of  course,  under  arms, 
and  great  preparations  were  made  for  a  battle  ;  patrols 
were  ordered  to  scour  the  roads,  and  sentries  posted 
everywhere,  to  give  warning  when  the  boys  came  in 
sight,  and  my  father  was  placed  at  the  bridge  of  Drum- 
snag,  in  the  wildest  and  bleakest  part  of  the  whole 
country. 

"  *  This  is  pleasant,'  says  my  father,  as  soon  as  they 
left  him  there  alone  by  himself,  with  no  human  crayture 
to  speak  to,  nor  refreshment  within  ten  miles  of  him; 
'cowld  comfort,' says  he,  '  on  a  winter's  day,  and  faix 
but  I've  a  mind  to  give  ye  the  slip.' 

"Well,  he  put  his  gun  down,  and  he  lit  his  pipe,  and 
he  sat  down  under  an  ould  tree  and  began  to  ruminate 
upon  his  affairs. 

"' Oh,  then,  it's  wishing  it  well  I  am,' says  he,  'for 
sodgering;  and,  bad  luck  to  the  hammer  that  struck  the 
shilling  that  listed  me,  that's  all,' for  he  was  mighty  low 
in  his  heart. 

"Just  then  a  noise  came  rattling  down  near  him;  and 
before  he  could  get  on  his  legs,  down  came  the  general, 
ould  Cohoon,  with  an  orderly  after  him. 

"  '  Who  goes  there  ?'  says  my  father. 

"'  The  round,'  says  the  general,  looking  about  to  see 
where  was  the  sentry,  for  my  father  was  snug  under  the 
tree. 

" '  What  round?'  says  my  father. 

"'The  grand  round,' says  the  general,  more  puzzled 
than  afore. 

"'Pass  on,  grand  round,  and  God  save  you  kindly,' 
says  my  father,  putting  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  again,  for 
he  thought  all  was  over. 


Esthetics  is  the  science  of  the  sensitive  and  passional  manifestations  which 
are  the  object  of  art  ^  and  whose  psychic  form  it  constitutes. — Dklsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  6i 

"'Where  are  you?'  says  the  general;  for  sorra  bit  of 
my  father  could  he  see  yet. 

"'It's  here  I  am,'  says  he,  'and  a  cowld  place  I 
have  of  it;  and  av  it  wasn't  for  the  pipe  I'd  be  lost  en- 
tirely.' 

"The  words  wasn't  well  out  of  his  mouth,  when  the 
general  began  laughing  till  ye'd  think  he'd  fall  off  his 
horse. 

"*Yer  a  droll  sentry,'  says  the  general  as  soon  he 
could  speak. 

"  '  Be  gorra,  it's  little  fun  there's  left  in  me,'  says  my 
father, 'with  this  drilling,  and  parading,  and  blagaard- 
ing  about  the  roads  all  night.' 

"'And  is  this  the  way  you  salute  your  officer?'  says 
the  general. 

"  '  J.ust  so,'  says  my  father;  'devil  a  more  politeness 
ever  they  taught  me.' 

"'What  regiment  do  you  belong  to  ?' says  the  gen- 
eral. 

"  '  The  North  Cork,  bad  luck  to  them,'  says  my  father, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  '  They  ought  to  be  proud  of  j'e,'  says  the  general. 

"*  I'm  sorry  for  it,'  says  my  father,  sorrowfully,  'for 
maybe  they'll  keep  me  the  longer.' 

"'Well,  my  good  fellow,'  says  the  general,  '  let  me 
teach  you  something  before  I  go.  Whenever  your  ofVi- 
cer  passes,  it's  your  duty  to  present  arms  to  him.' 

'"  Arrah,  it's  jokin'  ye  are,'  says  my  father. 

"  *  No,  I'm  in  earnest,'  says  he,  '  as  ye  miglit  learn  to 
your  cost,  if  I  brought  you  to  a  court-martial.' 

"'Well,  there's  no  knowing,'  says  my  father,  'what 
they'd  be  up  to;  but  sure  if  that's  all,  I'll  do  it  with  all 


Delsarte  achieved  perfect  triiiviph  by  abolishing  sel/^  and  always  resuscitat- 
ing alive  in  its  pure  integrity  the  very  truth  of  the  characters  he  essayed. — 
Rev.  W.  R.  Ai.gkk. 


62  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  the  veins  of  my  heart"  whenever  yer  coming  this  way 
again.' 

"  The  general  began  to  laugh  again  here,  but  said: 

"'I'm  coming  back  in  the  evening,'  says  he,  'and 
mind  you  don't  forget  your  respect  to  your  officer.' 

"'  Never  fear,  sir,'  says  my  father;  'and  many  thanks 
to  you  for  telling  me.' 

"The  night  was  falling  fast,  and  my  father  began  to 
think  they  were  forgetting  him  entirely.  He  looked 
one  way,  and  he  looked  another,  but  sorra  bit  of  a  ser- 
geant's guard  was  coming  to  relieve  him.  '  I'll  give 
you  a  quarter  of  an  hour  more,'  says  my  father,  '  till  the 
light  leaves  that  rock  up  there;  after  that,'  says  he, 
'  by  the  mass!  I'll  be  off,  cost  me  what  it  may.' 

"Well,  his  courage  was  not  needed  this  time;  for 
what  did  he  see  at  the  same  moment  but  a  shadow  of 
something  coming  down  the  road;  he  looked  again, 
and  made  out  the  general  followed  by  the  orderly.  My 
father  immediately  took  up  his  musket  off  the  wall, 
settled  his  belts,  shook  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
put  it  into  his  pocket,  making  himself  as  smart  and 
neat-looking  as  he  could  be,  determining,  when  ould 
Cohoon  came  up,  to  ask  him  for  leave  to  go  home,  at 
least  for  the  night.  So  he  up  with  his  musket  to  his 
shoulder,  and  presented  it  straight  at  the  general.  It 
wasn't  well  there,  when  the  officer  pulled  up  his  horse 
quite  short,  and  shouted  out,  '  Sentr}^ — sentry!' 
"  '  Anan!'  says  my  father,  still  covering  him. 
"  'Down  with  your  musket,  you  rascal;  don't  you  see 
it's  the  grand  round.' 

"  '  To  be  sure  I  do,'  says  my  father,  never  changing  for 
a  minute. 


Nothing  is  so  unfamiliar  to  man  as  kimsel/.—'De.i.s.AKTE. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK,  63 

'"The  ruffian  will  shoot  me,'  says  the  general. 

"'Devil  a  fear,'  says  my  father,  '  av  it  doesn't  go  off 
of  itself.' 

"'What  do  you  mean  by  that,  you  villain  ?'  says  the 
general,  scarce  able  to  speak  with  fright,  for  every  turn 
he  gave  on  his  horse  my  father  followed  witli  the  gun — 
*  What  do  you  mean?' 

"'Sure,  aint  I  presenting,' says  my  father;  'blood  an' 
ages,  do  you  want  me  to  fare  next  ?' 

"With  that  the  general  drew  a  pistol  from  his  hol- 
ster, and  took  deliberate  aim  at  my  father;  and  there 
they  both  stood  for  five  minutes,  looking  at  each  other, 
the  orderly,  all  the  while,  breaking  his  heart  laughing 
behind  a  rock;  for,  ye  see,  the  general  knew  av  he  re- 
treated that  my  father  might  fire  on  purpose,  and  av 
he  came  on  that  he  might  fire  by  chance;  and  sorra  bit 
he  knew  what  was  best  to  be  done. 

"'Are  ye  going  to  pass  the  evening  up  there,  grand 
round  ?'  says  my  father,  '  for  it's  tired  I'm  getting 
houldin'  this  so  long.' 

"'  Port  arms,'  shouts  the  general,  as  if  on  parade. 

"'Sure,  I  can't,  till  yer  passed,' says  my  father,  an- 
grily, '  and  my  hand's  trembling  already.' 

" '  By  heavens!     I  shall  be  shot,*  says  the  general. 

"  '  Be  gorra,  it's  what  I'm  afraid  of,*  says  my  father; 
and  the  words  wasn't  out  of  his  mouth  before  off 
went  the  musket  bang,  and  down  fell  the  general 
smack  on  the  ground,  senseless.  Well,  the  orderly  ran 
out  at  this,  and  took  him  up  and  examined  his  wound  ; 
but  it  wasn't  a  wound  at  all,  only  the  wadding  of  the 
gun,  for  my  father — God  be  kind  to  him — ye  see,  could 
do    nothing    right,  and  so   he   bit   off  the  wrong   end   of 

The  affect  precedes  and  determines  the  effect. — Moses  Trie  Bkown. 


64  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

the  cartridge  when  he  put  it  in  the  gun,  and  by  reason 
there  was  no  bullet  in  it !  Well,  from  that  day  after  they 
never  got  sight  of  him,  for  the  instant  the  general 
dropped,  he  ran  away;  and  what  between  living  in  a 
lime-kiln  for  two  months,  eating  nothing  but  blackber- 
ries and  sloes,  and  other  disguises,  he  never  returned  to 
the  army,  but  ever  after  tuk  to  a  civil  situation,  and 
driv  a  hearse  for  many  years." 


VOICES  OF  THE  WILDWOOD. 


Ella  Sterling  Cummins. 


[To  recite  this  poem  well  a  certain  airiness,  lightness,  and  spon- 
taneity is  required.  There  must  be  no  conventional  "  ha!  ha!"  in  the 
laughter,  but  rather  a  gleeful,  childish  chuckle.  The  "  voices"  are  half 
sung,  half  spoken.  The  first  one,  the  meadow-lark,  is  especially  queer 
in  its  notes,  being  sort  of  slurred  into  each  other.  For  this  reason,  it  is 
a  little  difficult;  and  yet,  because  of  its  originality  and  simplicity  of 
sentiment,  very  taking  with  an  audience.] 

A  S  I  was  wandering  through  a  wood, 
All  dark  and  dense  and  wild, 
I  came  upon  a  palace  wall, 

And  found  myself  begniled 
By  the  bubbling  notes  of  innocence — 
The  laughter  of  a  child. 

Safe  was  she  within  her  world, 

And  I  was  just  outside  ; 
To  me  she  seemed  a  fairy  child, 

It  cannot  be  denied, 
For  she  was  calling  flocks  of  birds 

That  came  from  far  and  wide. 


One  can  only  appreciate  the  iiuporiance  of  an  act  when  he  takes  into  account 
the  nature  o/ its  agents.— Delsahtb. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION    BOOK.  65 

A  merry,  trilling  cry 

Came  o'er  the  palace  wall  ; 
"Ah  !  ha  !  ha  !  here  am  I  ! 

Why,  don't  you  hear  me  call  ? 
Come  froggy,  birdliiigs,  squirrel,  too! 
Don't  you  hear  me  calling  you  ? 

"  Ah  !  ha  !  ha  !  come  this  way, 

You  darlings,  every  one, 
I'm  broken-hearted  quite  to-day, 

The  clouds  are  o'er  the  sun." 
Then  rose  a  sudden  sound  of  glee, 


'■'■Siveetl       Well!    what   do      you     think     of    me? 
\Imitation  of  ?neadou<-lark,  half  spoken,  half  siing.^ 

"  Oh  !   meadow-lark,  you  darling  dear  ! 

You're  always  first  to  speak  ; 
Come  rest  upon  my  shoulder,  here. 

And  press  against  my  cheek." 
And  then  she  sang  most  merrily, 
"  Sweet  ?      Well!  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?" 
\^Same  notes  as  before.^ 

"  Old  froggy,  down  there  wet  and  cool, 

Now  what  have  you  to  say  ? 
Are  you  happy  in  your  pool, 

And  how  do  you  feel  to-day  ?" 
The  frog  his  sweetest  tune  now  tried, 
But  "  Ugly!  ugly!  ugly!"  hoarse  he  cried. 


What  7ve  produce  is  merely  the  form  o/  what  exists  in  our  minds.— G^su- 
viEVE  Stebbins. 


66 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


"I'm  sorry  !"  then  responded  she, 

Yet  laughing  at  the  jest, 
"  Oh  !  faithful  wood-dove,  answer  me  ! 

Whom  do  you  love  the  best  ?" 
The  bird  puffed  out  his  purple  sheen. 
And  cooed,  "  My  que-en  !  my  que-cii  !  fiiy  que-enT 

"You  frisky  squirrel  on  the  wall. 

Have  you  no  message,  say? 
Some  message  from  the  tree-tops  tall, 

To  lonesome  Deirdre  ?" 
The  squirrel  sat  with  tail  upcurled, 
"  Co  vie  up  !  come  up  !  come  up  and  see  the  world:'' 

"  Oh  !    tiny  bird*  with  nodding  head, 

What  fate  is  waiting  me  ? 
Shall  my  true  love  and  I  be  wed  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  fate's  decree?" 
The  brown  bird  moaned  as  he  sang  above, 


"  Farezvell,  my  love, Farewell,  my  love " 

I  turned  away,  I  had  no  choice  ; 

For  I  could  not  bear  to  stay 
And  hear  the  sobs  of  that  childish  voice. 

The  child  in  her  sad  dismay. 
And  the  brown  bird  moaned  in  the  tree  above, 
"  Farewell,  my  love  /  Farewell,  my  love  T 
\Saine  notes  as  before.^ 

*  A  tiny  species  of  fly-catcher  found  in  the  Sierras. 


Setneiotics  is  the  science  of  tlic  organic  signs  by  which  (esthetics  must  study 
inherent  Jit  ness. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  67 

TEN  ROBBER  TOES. 

Lii.i.iE  E.    Baku. 


T^HERE  is  a  story  that  I  have  been  told, 
And  it's  just  as  old  as  babies  are  old, 
For  sweet  Mother  Eve,  as  everyone  knows, 
Told  her  babies  the  tale  of  the  toes. 

Told  to  her  babies  how  ten  little  toes. 
Each  one  as  pink  as  the  pinkest  pink  rose, 
Once  on  a  time  were  naughty  and  bad  ; 
And  sorrow  and  trouble  in  consequence  had. 

How  this  big  toe  wanted  butter  and  bread, 
After  his  mamma  had  put  him  to  bed  ; 
And  this  lying  ne.xt  said:   "  S'posen  we  go 
Down  to  the  pantry  and  get  it,  you  know." 

And  this  wicked  toe  cried,  "  Come  along,  quick  ; 
Let's  sugar  the  butter  ever  so  thick." 
And  this  naughty  toe  cried:  "Jelly  for  me 
Top  of  the  butter  and  bread,  you  see." 

And  this  little  toe  cried:  "  Goody,  let's  go, 
We'll  slip  down  the  stairs  so  quiet  and  slow." 
So  ten  robber  toes,  all  tipped  with  red, 
Stole  silently  out  of  their  snowy  white  bed. 

While  this  wicked  toe,  so  jolly  and  fat, 
Helped  nine  naughty  toes  to  pitty-pat-pat 
Along  the  big  hall,  with  pillars  of  white, 
And  down  the  back  stairs  devoid  of  light. 


By  gesture^  play  o/ countenance,  and  tone  o/  voice,  we  can  tell  u-hat  a  man 
thinks, /eels,  or  ivi/ls:  but  by  his  f'hysiognoiny  and  the  automatic  movements 
0/ his  body,  ive  can  tell  what  he  is.—T.  M.  Balliet. 


68  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Then  this  little  toe  got  a  terrible  scare, 
For  he  thought  in  the  dark  of  a  grizzly  bear. 
And  this  little  toe  said  :  "  Nurse  must  be  right 
That  goblins  and  witches  are  living  at  night." 

And  this  little  toe  said  :  "  A  fox  may  be  hid 
In  the  hat-rack  box  right  under  the  lid." 
And  this  little  toe  cried  :  "  Dearie  me,  oh  ! 
Lions  and  tigers  is  coming,  I  know." 

Then  mamma  came  out  with  the  beautiful  light. 
Caught  ten  robber  toes  all  ready  for  flight, 
Yes,  she  caught  and  she  kissed  those  ten  robber  toes. 
Till  redder  they  were  than  any  red  rose. 


HER  LOVERS. 


IV /[  Y  first,  my  very  first,  his  name  was  Will — 
A  handsome  fellow,  fair,  with  curly  hair 
And  lovely  eyes;  I  have  his  locket  still. 

He  went  to  Galveston  and  settled  there, 
Or  so  I  heard;  oh,  dear  me  !  dear  me  ! 
How  terribly  in  love  he  used  to  be. 

My  second,  Robert  Hill,  he  told  his  love 
The  first  time  that  we  met — 'twas  at  a  ball  ; 

A  foolish  fellow — he  carried  off  my  glove. 
We  sat  out  half  the  dances  in  the  hall, 

+ , : ■ 

I       The  nriiit,  dej/rived  of  tlie  kiio-iuleiige  of  a  criterion  which  govertis  his  art, 
and  to  ivhich  he  should  submit  nil  his  work,  can  never  be  more  than  the  scr- 
I  vile  and  blind  copyist  of  works  firoduied   in  a  /oriner  and  more  enlightened 
I  epoch. — Delsarte. 


J 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  69 

And  flirted  in  a  most  outrageous  way. 
Ah  me  !  how  mother  scolded  all  next  day. 

The  third  woke  up  \x\\  heart.      From  night  till  morn 
And  morn  till  night  I  dreamed  alone  of  him. 

I  treasured  up  a  rosebud  he  had  worn, 

And  my  tears  and  kisses  made  his  picture  dim. 

Strange  that  I  can  feel  that  old,  old  pain, 

When  I  remember  Paul, — that  was  his  name. 

My  fourth  and  fifth  were  brothers,  twins  at  that. 

Good  fellows,  kind  and  clever,  too. 
It  was  rather  shabby  to  refuse  them  flat, 

Both  in  one  day,  but  what  else  could  I  do  ? 
My  heart  was  still  with  Paul,  and  he  had  gone 
Yacht-sailing  with  the  Misses  Garretson. 

He  never  cared  for  me,  I  found  that  out, 
Despite  the  foolish  clinging  of  my  hope  ; 

'Twas  proved  to  me,  ere  long,  beyond  a  doubt. 
I  steeled  my  heart.     I  would  not  fret  nor  mope, 

But  masked  myself  in  gayety  and  went 

To  grace  his  wedding  when  the  cards  were  sent. 

So  these  were  all  my  loves.     My  husband  ?     Oh, 

I  met  him  down  in  Florida,  one  fall. 
Rich,  middle-aged,  and  prosy,  as  you  know. 

He  proposed,  and  I  accepted  ;  tliat  was  all. 
A  kind,  good  soul,  he  worships  me;  but,  then, 
I  never  count  him  in  with  the  other  men. 


Gesture  is  not  the  aicoinpattitneiit   of  sf<t-fch.     It  must  e.xptess  the  idea  bet- 
ter and  in  another  way,  e/se  it  will  be  only  a  plionastn.  an  after  conception  of 
bad  taste,  a  hindrance  rather  than  an  aid  to  intelligible  expression. — Delai- 
MOSNK. 
4, 4. 


70  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

STANZAS  TO  ETERNITY. 

Translated  by  Elsie  M.Wilbor. 

[The  following  poem  is  really  intended  for  a  song,  and  Delsarte 
composed  a  quaint  melody  for  it.  It  is  republished  for  the  first  time 
here,  and  is  suitable  for  a  recitation.  Mme.  Arnaud  speaks  of  the 
attention  attracted  by  Darcier  by  his  rendering  of  these  "Stanzas  to 
Eternity."  The  picture  accompanying  this  poem  is  a  fac-simile  of  the 
engraving  on  the  title-page  of  the  music,  and  represents  the  scene  in 
Delsarte's  life  where  he  had  just  buried  his  brother,  and  was  overcome 
by  cold  and  hunger.  While  in  this  fainting  condition  he  had  a  dream 
in  which  angels  revealed  to  him  his  life-work. — Editor.] 

f^\  MAN  who  art  nursed  by  blind  fortune, 

And  thinkest  forever  its  joys  to  possess! 
The  cries  of  the  wretched  importune, 

Thy  heart  is  close  shut  to  their  tales  of  distress. 

CHORUS. 

Rich,  heedless  one,  go;  for  thy  heart  is  of  stone; 
Sweet  charity's  promptings  thou  never  hast  known. 
But  pause  and  reflect — all  on  earth  fades  away. 
Eternity  comes;  oh,  think  well  whilst  thou  may. 

When  gayly  thou'rt  dancing,  look  yonder; 

For  stealing  away  in  the  lamps'  brilliant  light 
/.  man  old  and  ragged — oh,  ponder, — 

Is  starving  and  cold,  a  most  pitiful  sight! 

That  child  o'er  his  mother's  grave  bending, 

And  off'ringall  shiv'ring  his  thin  hands  for  alms. 

At  dawn  will  to  heaven  be  ascending. 

Thy  fingers  drop  naught  in  his  cold,  trembling  palms. 


Art  is  not,  as  is  said,  an  imitation  c/ nature.  It  ele-,'ates  in  idealizing  her : 
it  is  the  synthetic  rapport  of  the  scattered  beauties  of  nature  to  a  superior 
and  definite  type. — Dklsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  71 


fK 


'^^^M 


"    '■,*''    ■-;    '■■■■■. 


;v  ■■■•  *sss^«^ 


Like  him  from  parent  Nature  proceeding 

All  naked,  in  spite  of  thy  poor,  foolish  pride; 

The  tomb,  toward  which  all  life  is  leading, 
Will  gather  thy  dust  to  his  now  despised  side. 


The  shade,  that  exquisite  f'ortion  o/art  ivhich  is  rather  /elt  than  expressed , 
is  the  characteristic  sign  of  the  perfection  of  talent:  it  forms  apart  of  the 

personality  of  the  artist. — Aknai'D. 


72  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

ABSOLUTION. 


E.  Nesbit.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 

'  I  "HREE  months  had  passed  since  she  had  knelt  be- 
fore 

The  grate  of  the  confessional,  and  he, 
The  priest,  had  wondered  why  she  came  no  more 

To  tell  her  sinless  sins — the  vanity 
Whose  valid  reason  graced  her  simple  dress, 

The  prayers  forgotten,  or  the  untold  beads — 

The  little  thoughtless  words,  the  slight  misdeeds, 
Which  made  the  sum  of  her  unrighteousness. 

She  was  the  fairest  maiden  in  his  fold, 

With  her  sweet  mouth  and  musical  pure  voice. 
Her  deep  gray  eyes,  her  hair's  tempestuous  gold, 

Her  gracious,  graceful  figure's  perfect  poise. 
Her  happy  laugh,  her  wild,  unconscious  grace, 

Her  gentle  ways  to  old,  or  sick,  or  sad. 

The  comprehending  sympathy  she  had. 
Had  made  of  her  the  idol  of  the  place. 

And  when  she  grew  so  silent  and  so  sad, 
So  thin  and  quiet,  pale  and  hollow-eyed. 

And  cared  no  more  to  laugh  and  to  be  glad 
With  other  maidens  by  the  waterside, 

All  wondered;  kindly  grieved  the  elders  were. 
And  some  few  girls  went  whispering  about, 
"She  loves — who  is  it?     Let  us  find  it  out!" 

But  never  dared  to  speak  of  it  to  her. 


Science  elevates  man  by  subjecting  to  hint  ike  things  of  this  tvorld.     Art  su- 
pernaturalizes  those  things  by  identifying  hint  ivith  tkent. — Delsartk. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


n 


But  the  priest's  duty  bade  him  sect:  her  out 

And  say,  "  My  child,  wliy  dost  thou  sit  apart  ? 
Hast  thou  some  grief?     Hast  thou  some  secret  doubt? 

Come  and  unfold  to  me  thine  inmost  heart. 
God's  absolution  can  assuage  all  grief 

And  all  remorse  and  woe  beneath  the  sun. 

Whatever  thou  hast  said,  or  thought,  or  done, 
The  holy  church  can  give  thy  soul  relief." 

He  stood  beside  her,  young  and  strong,  and  swayed 

With  pity  for  the  sorrow  in  her  eyes. 
Which,  as  she  raised  them  to  liis  own,  conveyed 

Into  his  soul  a  sort  of  sad  surprise. 
She  answered,  *'  I  will  come  ;"  and  so  at  last 

Out  of  the  summer  evening's  crimson  glow, 

Witli  heart  reluctant  and  with  footsteps  slow. 
Into  the  cool,  great,  empty  church  she  passed. 

"By  my  own  fault,  my  own  most  grievous  fault, 

I  cannot  say,  for  it  is  not,"  she  said. 
Kneeling  within  the  gray  stone  chapel's  vault. 

And  on  the  ledge  her  golden  hair  was  spread. 
"  Love  broke  upon  me  in  a  dream  ;  it  came 

Without  beginning,  for  to  me  it  seemed 

That  never  otherwise  than  as  I  dreamed 
Through  all  my  life  this  thing  had  been  the  same. 


"I  only  knew  my  heart,  entire,  complete, 
Was  given  to  my  other  self,  my  love  ; 

That  I  through  all  the  world  would  gladly  move 
So  I  might  follow  his  adored  feet. 

I  dreamed  I  had  all  earth,  all  time,  all  space, 


Almost  all  sinuousness  depends  on  the  easy  control  of  the  muscles  at  the 
■waist. — Genevieve  Stebbins. 


74  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  every  blessing,  human  and  divine  ; 
But  hated  the  possessions  that  were  mine, 
And  only  cared  for  his  beloved  face. 

"  I  never  knew  I  loved  him  till  that  dream 

Drew  from  my  eyes  the  veil,  and  left  me  wise. 
What  I  had  thought  was  reverence  grew  to  seem 

Only  my  lifelong  love  in  thin  disguise. 
And  in  my  dream  it  looked  so  sinless,  too, 

So  beautiful,  harmonious,  and  right  ; 

The  vision  faded  with  the  morning  light, 
The  love  will  last  as  long  as  I  shall  do." 

"  Child,  have  you  prayed  against  it  ?"     "  Have  I  prayed  ? 

Have  I  not  clogged  my  very  soul  with  prayer  ; 
Stopped  up  my  ears  with  sound  of  praying  ;  made 

My  very  body  faint  with  kneeling  there 
Before  the  sculptured  Christ,  and  all  for  this, 

That  when  my  lips  can  pray  no  more,  and  sleep 

Shuts  my  unwilling  eyes,  my  love  will  leap 
To  dreamland's  bounds,  to  meet  me  with  his  kiss! 

"Avoid  him  ?     Ay,  in  dewy  garden  walk 
How  often  have  I  strayed,  avoiding  him, 

And  heard  his  voice  mix  with  the  common  talk, 
Yet  never  turned  his  way.     My  eyes  grow  dim 

With  weeping  over  what  I  lose  by  day 
And  find  by  night,  yet  never  have  to  call 
My  own.     O  God  !  is  there  no  help  at  all — 

No  hope,  no  chance,  and  no  escapeful  way?" 

"And  who  is  he  to  whom  thy  love  is  given  ?" 

"  What  ?    Holy  church  demands  to  know  his  name  ? 


^ 


It  is  by  means  of  art  that  the  artist  trans/ortns  and  anitnates  inorganic 
bodies,  in  stamping  upon  them  the  character  o/  his  life,  his  soul,  and  his 
■mind. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.  75 

No  rest  for  me  on  eartli,  no  hope  of  Iieaven 

Unless  I  tell  it  ?     Ab,  for  very  shame 
I  cannot — yet  why  not  ? — I  will — I  can  ! 

I  have  grown  mad  with  brooding  on  my  curse. 

Here  !     Take  the  name  ;  no  better  and  no  worse 
My  case  will  be.     Father,  thou  art  the  man  !" 

An  icy  shock  shivered  through  all  his  frame — 

An  overwhelming,  cold  astonishment  ; 
But  on  the  instant  the  revulsion  came, 

His  blood  felt  v/hat  her  revelation  meant. 
"  Lord  Christ,"  his  soul  cried,  while  his  heart  beat  fast, 

"  Give  strength  in  this,  my  hour  of  utmost  need  ;" 

And  with  the  prayer  strength  came  to  him  indeed. 
And  with  calm  voice  he  answered  her  at  last: 

"Child,  go  in  peace  !     Wrestle  and  watch  and  pray, 
And  I  will  spend  this  night  in  prayer  for  thee. 

That  God  will  take  thy  strange  great  grief  away. 
Thou  hast  confessed  thy  sin.     Absolvo  te." 

Silence  most  absolute  a  little  while, 

Then  passed  the  whisper  of  her  trailing  gown 
Over  the  knee-worn  stones,  and  soft  died  down 

The  dim,  deserted,  incense-memoried  aisle. 

All  night  he  lay  upon  the  chancel  floor, 

And  coined  his  heart  in  tears  and  prayers,  and  new. 
Strange  longings  he  had  never  known  before. 

Her  very  memory  so  tlirilled  him  through. 
He  lay  so  tempest-tossed,  'twas  still  without. 

And  moaned:  "  Oh,  God!   I  love  her,  love  her  so! 

Oh,  for  one  spark  of  heaven's  fire  to  show 
Some  way  to  cast  this  devil's  passion  out  ! 


//  is  no  longer  man  as  type  o/ a  class  or  member  o/ a  monarchy,  but  man  as 
an  independent  individual,  whose  art  is  in  process  of  conception. — Franklin 
H.  Sargent. 


76  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"Christ,  by  Thy  passion,  by  Thy  death  for  men, 
Oh,  save  me  from  myself,  save  her  from  me  !" 

And  at  the  word  the  moon  came  out  again 
From  her  cloud-palace,  and  threw  suddenly 

A  shadow  from  the  great  cross  overhead 
Upon  the  priest  ;  and  with  it  came  a  sense 
Of  strength  renewed,  of  perfect  confidence 

In  Him  who  on  that  cross  for  men  hung  dead. 

But  as  the  ghostly  moon  began  to  fade, 

And  moonlight  glimmered  into  ghostlier  dawn, 

The  shadow  that  the  crucifix  had  made 

With  twilight  mixed  ;  and  with  it  seemed  withdrawn 

The  peace  that  with  its  shadowy  shape  began, 
And  as  the  dim  east  brightened,  slowly  ceased 
The  wild  devotion  that  had  filled  the  priest — 

And  with  full  sunlight  he  sprang  up — a  man  ! 

He  strode  straight  down  the  church  and  passed  along 
The  grave-set  garden's  dewy  grass-grown  slope  ; 

The  woods  about  were  musical  with  song. 

The  world  was  bright  with,  youth,  and  love,  and  hope. 

Soon  would  he  see  her — cry,  "  I  am  thine  own, 
As  thou  art  mine,  now,  and  forevermore  !" 
And  at  her  worshipped  feet  would  kneel  before. 

And  she  should  kiss  the  lips  that  had  not  known 

The  kiss  of  love  in  any  vanished  year. 

And  as  he  dreamed  of  his  secured  delight, 
A  mourning  band,  and  in  their  midst  a  bier, 

Round  the  curved  road  came  slowly  into  sight. 
He  hastened  to  pass  on  ;  a  covering-fold 

Veiled  the  dead,  quiet  face — and  yet — and  3'et — 


One  of  two  things  is  necessary  in  art:  either  that  the  divine  ivork  to  be  con- 
templated shall  be  abased  to  the  lez'el  of  man;  or  that  he  elevate  himself  to 
its  height. — Delsarte. 


DELSAR'JR  RECITATION  BOOK.  yy 

Did  he  not  know  that  liand,  so  white  and  wet? 
Did  he  not  know  those  dripping  curls  of  gold  ? 

"We  came  to  you  to  know  what  we  should  do, 
Father  :  we  found  her  body  in  the  stream, 

And  how  it  happed,  God  knows  !"     One  other  knew — 
Knew  that  of  him  had  been  her  last  wild  dream — 

Knew  the  full  reason  of  that  life-disdain — 

Knew  how  the  shame  of  hopeless  love  confessed 
And  unreturned  had  seemed  to  stain  her  breast, 

Till  only  death  should  make  her  clean  again. 

They  left  her  in  the  church  where  sunbeams  bright 

Gilded  the  wreathed  oak  and  carven  stone 
With  golden  floods  of  consecrating  light  ; 

And  here  at  last,  together  and  alone. 
The  lovers  met,  and  here  upon  her  hair 

He  set  his  lips,  and,  dry-eyed,  kissed  her  face, 

And  in  the  stillness  of  the  holy  place 
He  spoke  in  tones  of  bitter,  blank  despair  : 

"  Oh,  lips  so  quiet,  eyes  that  will  not  see  ! 

Oh,  clinging  hands  that  not  again  will  cling  ! 
This  last  poor  sin  may  well  be  pardoned  thee. 

Since  for  the  right's  sake  thou  hast  done  this  thing. 
Oh,  poor  weak  heart,  forever  laid  to  rest. 

That  could  no  longer  strive  against  its  fate. 

For  thee  high  heaven  will  unbar  its  gate, 
And  thou  shalt  enter  in  and  shalt  be  blessed. 

"The  chances  were  the  same  for  us,"  he  said, 

"Yet  thou  hast  won,  and  I  have  lost,  the  whole  ; 
Thou  would'st  not  live  in  sin,  and  thou  art  dead — 

* — : : : ' 

When  the  being  contemplates,  or  is  /tiled  ivith  the  majesty  and  />oiver  o/ a 
great  cause,  as  a  love  of  liberty,  or  0/  loyalty  to  conscience  and  duty,  or  0/ 
obedience  to  God,  all  the  agents  0/  exfression  stand  in  poise  or  eguilibrium. — 
MosRS  True  Brown. 


78  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

But  I — against  thee  I  have  weighed  my  soul, 
And,  losing  thee,  have  lost  my  soul  as  well. 

I  have  cursed  God,  and  trampled  on  His  cross  ; 

Earth  has  no  measurement  for  all  my  loss. 
But  I  shall  learn  to  measure  it  in  hell  !" 


LADIES  OF  ATHENS. 


Mrs.  M.  a.  Lii-scomb. 


Scene. — Home  of  Xatit/iippc,  tuife  of  Socrates. 

CHARACTERS. 

Xanthippe Wife  of  Socrates. 

Aspasia Wife  of  Pericles. 

Sappho Poetess. 

Philesia Wife  of  Xenophon. 

Pythias Wife  of  Aristotle. 

Cleobula Sister  of  Demosthenes. 

Damophila Wife  of  Dainophilus  and  rival  of  Sappho. 

A^icostrata , Wife  of  Sophocles. 

COSTUMES. 

[The  costumes  are  all  Greek,  with  variations  of  draping  and  color. 
Xanthippe's  dress  should  be  slightly  shabby.  Statuary  against  a  crim- 
son curtain  forms  the  background  of  the  scene.  Young  ladies  and 
children  draped  and  mounted  on  pedestals,  singly  or  in  groups,  for  the 
statues.] 

'V' ANTHIPPE.  Life  is  an  absolute  burden,  and  I  am 
wearied  with  it.  Here  I  am  shut  up  within  these 
four  walls,  robbed  of  the  luxuries  that  m}^  friends  en- 
joy, with  barely  enough  cotnforts  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  while  Socrates,  my  husband,  shiftless  wretch 
that  he  is,  wanders  about  the  streets  of  Athens  prating 
of  justice  and  injustice,  truth  and  falsehood,  poverty 
and  wealth,  and  so  long  as  he  can  find  listeners  to  his 
wild  philosophies  he  cares  not  how  fares  it  with  me  at 


The  artist  should  first  know  what  he  ought  to  seek  in  the  subject ;  nndy  sec- 
ondly^ know  where  to  find  what  he  seeks.  He  must  have,  in  the  first  place, 
the  faithful  signal  of  the  sotight-for  thing:  in  the  second  place,  the  means  of 
surely  finding  it. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  79 

home.  For  months  I  haven't  had  a  single  drachma  of 
his  earnings;  and  for  a  whole  year  one  mina  is  all  that 
he  has  given  to  onr  snpport,  and  that  was  not  the  fruit 
of  his  own  labor,  but  sent  him  by  a  generous  friend! 
And  yet  we  must  be  fed.  "Not  live  to  eat,"  he  would 
say,  but  "  eat  to  live."  To-day  he  will  come  home  and 
expect  to  find  the  pot  boiling  and  enjoy  his  savory  soup 
and  well-cooked  barley  bread;  and  if  I  perchance  utter 
a  single  word  of  complaint,  I  am  called  a  scold,  a  terma- 
gant, and  told  that  Socrates  married  Xanthippe  in  order 
that  she  might  discipline  his  temper!  Oh,  if  I  could 
only  make  him  angry  for  once,  how  happy,  how  su- 
premely happy  I  should  be! 

YEiiter  AsPASiA.] 

Xan.  Why,  good-morrow!  you  are  most  welcome. 
How  fares  it  with  you  and  your  lord  to-day,  and  where- 
fore this  pleasure  you  have  bestowed  on  me? 

AsPASiA.  I  have'come  to  praise  your  husband.  Know 
you  not  that  while  you  sit  quietly  here  at  home,  Athens  is 
fairly  wild  about  him?  As  I  passed  by  the  market- 
place I  beheld  a  vast  concourse  of  people.  Men  were 
fairly  pushing  each  other  aside  in  their  eagerness  to 
hear.  I  asked  what  had  brought  the  people  together, 
and  was  told  more  than  once  that  it  was  to  listen  to 
Socrates's  teachings.  As  for  Pericles,  my  husband,  I  but 
rarely  see  him  now.  Once  I  could  interest  him  on  the 
subject  of  oratory,  and  we  often  read  and  studied  to- 
gether; but  now  he  thinks  there  is  no  wisdom  except 
what  proceeds  from  the  mind  of  Socrates. 

Xan.  Oh,  Aspasia,  it  frets  me  to  hear  of  this.  If 
Pericles  would   only    teach   Socrates    that   women  and 


T      True  passion^  which  nez'er  errs,  has  no  need  o/  recurring  to  the  study  o/ 
•what  function  nature  has  assigned  to  the  eye,  the  nose,  the  mouth,  in  the  ex- 
\pression   0/  certain  emotions  0/  the  soul:  but   they  are  indisf>ensable  to  the 
\  feigned  passion  of  the  actor. — A.  Gieroilt. 
4. . 


8o  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

children  cannot   dine   or  sup  off  philosophy,  he  would 
prove  himself  a  benefactor  as  well  as  a  teacher. 

Asp.  But,  Xanthippe,  are  you  not  proud  of  his  fame  ? 
Plato  fairly  worships  him.  He  likens  him  to  the  masks 
of  Silenus  which  may  be  seen  sitting  in  the  statuaries 
and  shops,  having  pipes  and  flutes  in  their  mouths;  but 
they  are  made  to  open,  and  inside  of  them  are  images  of 
gods. 

Xan.  Aspasia,  no;  I  am  not  proud  of  a  husband  who 
goes  about  the  market-place  in  one  garrhent,  barefooted 
and  bareheaded;  who  teaches  that  self-denial  is  the 
sublimest  virtue,  and  that  poverty  is  the  greatest  bless- 
ing. If  you  would  be  happy,  keep  Pericles  away  from 
him. 

Asp.  Plato  thinks  him  a  more  wonderful  flute-player 
than  Marsyas;  for  Socrates,  he  says,  moves  the  souls  of 
men  simply  with  his  voice  without  the  aid  of  instru- 
ment, and  he  swears  that  he  could  grow  old  sitting  at 
your  husband's  feet.  He  says,  too,  that  Socrates  is  the 
only  man  that  he  ever  envied,  and  who  has  ever  made 
him  ashamed  of  himself. 

Xan.  Plato  knows  not  whereof  he  speaks.  Would  to 
Zeus  he  were  a  woman  and  had  married  Socrates!  But 
here  comes  Sappho.  [Enter  Sappho.]  Welcome,  sweet 
poetess!  Violets  crown  Sappho!  Your  presence  always 
gladdens  my  heart  and  brings  sunshine  to  my  home. 

Asp.  Good-morrow,  friend;  I  find  Xanthippe  in  too 
practical  a  mood  to-day  to  enjoy  hearing  her  husband 
praised.  She  thinks  she  would  love  him  better  if  he  had 
a  little  less  wisdom  and  philosoph}'  and  a  little  more 
fish  and  fowl  for  dinner. 

Sappho.     Fie,    Xanthippe!     Would    you    have    your 


As  a  knowledge  of  the  parts  of  speech  is  not  enough  to  make  a  -writer,  so 
\ercises practiced  mechanically  -with  a  view  to  the  inanagement  o/ sound 
never  produce  artists. — Delsarte. 


r,  so  ex- 
can 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  8 1 

husband  a  fishmonger,  a  butcher,  or  a  baker?  He  who 
feeds  the  body  is  no  more  than  these.  He  who  feeds  the 
mind  is  l)est  vvortliy  of  our  thanks.  Your  husl)and  is 
something  above  the  common  Iierd.  "  He  walks  in  air 
and  contemplates  the  sun." 

Xan.  Sweet,  smiling  Sappho,  that  will  not  do  for  a 
man  of  earth.  High-soaring  thoughts  and  words  of 
wisdom  will  never  be  taken  in  exchange  for  bakers'  and 
butchers'  bills.     Sappho,  never  marry  a  philosopher. 

Sap.  Xanthippe,  you  do  not  value  your  husband  as 
you  should.  Pliilosophers  are  kings,  and  should  have 
crow-ns  and  be  enthroned.  The  only  hope  that  we  have 
for  our  state  is  to  encourage  learning  and  crush  out 
ignorance.  Let  Socrates  teach  the  people,  for  wisdom 
hangs  upon  his  lips,  the  light  of  knowledge  is  in  his  eye, 
and  he  alone  is  able  to  draw  all  men  after  him. 

Asr.  Well  spoken,  pure  Sappho,  for  none  can  be 
compared  to  the  noble  Socrates.  He  has  learned  the 
greatest,  the  hardest  lesson  of  life — how  to  rule  him- 
self. Had  he  given  to  Athenian  youths  but  one  precept, 
that  of  "  Know  thyself,"  he  would  be  as  immortal  as 
the  gods  themselves. 

Xan.  Will  you  ladies  dine  with  me?  Perhaps  you 
will  change  your  views  to-morrow.  But  pardon,  I  see 
yonder  Damophila  and  Nicostrata.  \Eiitcr  Damophila 
^;/</NiC0STRATA.]  Welcome,  fair  ladies;  Xanthippe  can 
offer  but  small  cheer  to  her  friends,  but  always  a  most 
gracious  welcome.  You  know  these  friends?  \introduces 
the>i{\  Aspasia,  the  wife  of  our  noble  Pericles,  and 
Sappho,  our  violet-crowned  poetess. 

[Damophila  .ft't'.y  Sappho  and  shotvs  evident  signs  of  jeal- 
ousy l\ 


The  body  is  but  the  manifestation  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  form  under  which 
the  soul  projects  itself^  as  it  were,  into  s/>ace  and  tii/ie,  the  medium  through 
■which  it  communicates  ^vith  the  material  world  and  with  other  souls  like  it- 
self.—1 .  M.  Ballibt. 


+ 


82  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Damophila.  Our  visit  to-day  was  to  Xanthippe,  wife 
of  the  illustrious  Socrates.  Damophilus,  my  husband, 
bade  me  tell  you  that  his,  nay,  all  philosophy,  is  but 
vain  when  compared  to  what  is  taught  by  the  noble 
Socrates. 

NicosTRATA.  Xanthippe,  how  blessed  you  are  in  being 
the  wife  of  such  a  man.  I  would  give  half  my  life  to 
enjoy  the  honor  that  is  yours  to-day. 

Dam.  You  do  give  voice  to  my  own  thoughts,  Nico- 
strata.  Damophilus  and  Sophocles  say  they  feel  they 
are  but  babes  in  knowledge  when  they  contemplate  all 
that  your  husband  has  accomplished;  and  as  for  myself, 
I  am  filled  with  contempt  for  my  own  weak  verses  and 
think  them  but  the  product  of  inanity. 

Sap.  Seaside  with  sa)-casm\  True  sentences  and  well 
pronounced. 

Dam.  Madam,  your  opinion  was  not  asked.  Vouch- 
safe to  give  it  when  it  is  wanted.  It  ill  becomes  one 
who  writes  no  better  than  a  rhymester  to  speak  in  criti- 
cising terms  of  others. 

Sap.  I  but  re-echoed  your  own  sentiments.  You  gave 
birth  to  the  thought,  not  I. 

Dam.  Madam,  you  were  only  too  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  insult  me;  and  were  it  not  for  the  respect  I 
hold  for  Xanthippe,  our  hostess,  with  a  woman's  weapon 
I  would  lash  you  until  you  were  sorry  that  you  had 
spoken. 

Nic.  Sweet  ladies,  I  beg,  I  entreat  that  you  do  curb 
these  wild  passions.  Xanthippe  will  be  sorry  that  we 
have  come  if  we  make  her  house  a  scene  of  loud  talking 
and  jealous  brawl. 

Dam.  I  had  forgot.  Pardon  me,  Xanthippe;  passion 
^ J. 


A  rt  is^  divine  in    its  principles^  divine    in    its  essence,  divine  in  its  action, 
divine  in  its  end. — Dels  arte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  83 

is  like  a  stagnant  pool — only  stir  it  up  and  it  gives 
forth  odors  vile  and  dank.  Nicostrata  and  I  came 
liitlier  to-day  expecting  to  find  no  one  but  yourself  (the 
gentle  Aspasia  is  always  welcome).  We  have  come  to 
l)raise  your  husband  and  hear  him  praised.  We  have 
l)rought  with  us,  too,  the  wonderful  riddle  of  the  Sphinx 
that  is  now  puzzling  the  minds  of  all  wise  Athenians. 

Xan.  Tell  it  me,  for  Socrates  tells  me  nothing.  He 
says  that  husbands  should  instruct  their  wives  in  all 
they  wish  them  to  know;  he  gives  me  no  instruction, 
and,  therefore,  he  wishes  me  to  know  nothing. 

Nic.  Sophocles,  my  husband,  bade  me  give  the  rid- 
dle to  you,  Xanthippe,  and  ask  that  Socrates  would  find 
the  answer.  He  has  made  King  QEdipus,  in  his  wonder- 
ful tragedy,  give  an  answer  both  proper  and  true;  but 
he  wishes  to  have  Socrates  find  a  solution,  which  Soph- 
ocles knows  will  be  fraught  with  cleverness  and  wisdom. 

Dam.  Nicostrata,  Socrates  has  said  that  the  talent 
of  women  is  quite  equal  to  that  of  men;  that  there  is  no 
inec]uality  except  the  inequality  of  strength.  Suppose, 
then,  you  give  the  riddle  to  us;  and  should  any  of  us 
solve  it,  you  can  take  our  answer  back  to  Sophocles, 
so  that  he  may  know  that  Socrates  is  right  when  he 
says  that  the  "  ladies  of  Atiiens  have  brain  as  well  as 
beauty." 

Nic.  Well,  as  you  will;  it  may  serve  for  entertain- 
ment to  Xanthippe  and  her  friends.  Listen:  "There 
lives  upon  the  earth  a  being,  two-footed;  yea,  and  with 
four  feet;  yea,  and  with  three  feet,  too,  yet  his  voice 
continues  unchanging.  And  lo!  of  all  things  that  move 
in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  ocean,  he  only  changes  his 
nature,  and  yet  when   on   most  feet  he  walketh,  then  is 

t * 

I      Gesture  is  the  direct  agent  of  the  heart,  the  interpreter  of  speech.     It  ts  el- 
liptical discourse. — Delai'mosne. 


84  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

the  speed  of  his  limbs  most  weak  and   utterly  power- 
less." 
\^All  assume  a  thoughtful  attitude ;  finally  Aspasia  speaksi\ 

Asp.  1  never  solved  a  riddle  in  all  my  life;  they  make 
my  head  ache. 

Sap.  Methinks  this  wonderful  creature  must  be  our 
neighbor  dog,  for  he  once  walked  upon  four  feet,  now 
walks  upon  three,  and  daytime  and  night-time  his  voice 
is  ever  unchanging. 

Xan.  Well  answered,  Sappho;  you  must  be  sleepless 
o'  nights,  and  doubtless  think  the  bark  of  a  dog  more 
terrific  than  his  bite. 

Sap.  In  truth  I  do.  Xanthippe,  that  dog  has  well 
nigh  crushed  all  the  poetry  out  of  my  nature,  and  made 
me  half  wish  that  I  had  been  born  deaf. 

Nic.  Come,  ladies,  the  riddle  is  yet  unsolved.  '*  There 
lives  upon  the  earth  a  being,  two-footed;  yea,  and  with 
four  feet;  yea,  and  with  three  feet,  too,  yet  his  voice 
continues  unchanging.  And  lo!  of  all  things  that  move 
in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  ocean,  he  only  changes  his 
nature,  and  yet  when  on  most  feet  he  walketh,  then  is 
the  speed  of  his  limbs  most  weak  and  utterly  power- 
less." 

Dam.  I  have  it:  Man  it  is  thou  hast  described,  who, 
when  on  earth  he  appeareth,  first  as  a  babe  on  hands 
and  knees,  four-footed,  creeps  on  his  way;  then  when 
old  age  Cometh  on  and  the  burden  of  years  weighs  full 
heavy,  bending  his  shoulders  and  neck,  as  a  third  foot 
uses  his  staff. 

\All  clap  hands  and  cry  "  Bravo  !  bravo  r  except  Sappho.] 

Sap.     Her  answer  is  a  man,  of  course. 


Gesture  is  parallel  to  the  impression  received:  it  is  therefore   ahvays  an- 
terior to  speech,  ■which  is  but  a  reflected  and  subordinate  e.ipression,— Vit-i.- 

SARTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  85 

Nic.  Dainophila,  you  have  solved  the  Sphinx's  rid- 
dle. When  I  take  your  answer  home,  Socrates  will  be 
compelled  to  own  that  the  wife  of  one  of  Athens'  wisest 
philosophers  is  wiser  than  her  husband.  Know  you 
not,  ladies,  that  yesterday  at  a  symposium  at  our  house 
Sophocles  gave  the  Sphinx  riddle  to  a  party  of  friends, 
and  not  one  of  them  could  divine  a  meaning  in  it? 

Dam.  Had  the  answer  been  a  woman  they  had  not 
been  so  dull.  But,  Xanthippe,  when  your  husband  re- 
turns give  it  him.  Mis  thoiights  travel  beyond  other 
men's  thoughts,  and  he  may  find  a  deeper  meaning  than 
I  have  given  to  the  riddle. 

X.\N.  Here  comes  Philesia.  She  too,  perhaps,  comes 
to  tell  me  of  some  new  trick  of  my  husband  whereby  he 
may  catch  the  people.  \Enter  Philesia.]  Good-morrow, 
Philesia. 

Philesia.  Good-morrow,  ladies  all.  You  wonder, 
Xanthippe,  wliat  has  brought  me  hither  at  this  liour  of 
the  day.  My  dinner  is  cooked  to  a  crisp,  and  I  am  as 
hungry  as  a  wolf.  I  was  wearied  with  watching  and 
waiting  for  my  husband,  and  I  wandered  out  on  the 
street  to  know  wherefore  he  did  not  come.  As  I  passed 
the  market-place  I  beheld  a  vast  concourse  of  people, 
and  I  knew  my  husband,  must  be  there.  I  concealed 
myself  as  near  tlie  people  as  I  dared,  where  I  could  see 
and  be  unseen,  and  this  is  what  I  saw  and  what  I  heard. 
Socrates,  your  husband,  bareheaded,  barefooted,  was 
mounted  on  a  rude  platform  in  earnest  discourse;  the 
people  were  so  eager  to  drink  in  what  he  said,  that  they 
did  not  note  anything  that  was  passing  in  the  street.  I 
saw  Xenophon  seated  at  the  feet  of  Socrates,  busily 
writing  all  that  he  said.     I  was  afraid   to   linger,  but  I 


The  essential /•oint  is  to  get  back  to  the  truth,  to  e.r/ress  the /assions  ami 
emotions  as  nature  mani/^rsts  them,  ami  not  to  repeat  mechanically  a  series 
0/ convent ional />roceeiiings'.i.'hich  are  ■;■  iol at ioiiso/ the  natural  la:v. — AknaUD. 


86  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

heard  Socrates  say:  "We  have  two  ears  and  one  mouth, 
that  we  may  hear  much  and  talk  little." 

Xan.  Oh,  would  that  he  practiced  all  of  his  precepts! 
Philesia,  if  Xenophon  would  only  encourage  Socrates  to 
go  back  to  his  trade  and  give  up  preaching  and  teach- 
ing, he  should  have  Xanthippe's  heart's  best  blessing. 
1  Phil.  But,  Xanthippe,  your  husband's  talent  lies  not 
in  sculpture.  He  was  born  a  philosopher;  and  would 
you  cheat  the  age  of  his  golden  thoughts  for  the  few 
paltry  drachmas  that  he  might  earn  by  following  his 
trade  ? 

Xan.     Philesia,  golden  thoughts  do  not  satisfy  hunger. 

Sap.  Come,  come,  Xanthippe,  you  should  be  proud 
to  feed  the  philosopher  who  feeds  the  world. 

Xan.  a  man's  home  should  be  his  world.  He  who 
provides  not  for  his  own  household  is  worse  than  an 
infidel. 

Asp.  Tut,  tut,  Xanthippe;  it  grieves  me  to  hear  you 
talk  thus.  Come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow  and  hear 
your  husband  praised.  These  ladies,  too,  I  hope  will 
honor  me.  Plato,  Pericles,  and  Xenophon  shall  all  be 
there;  and  when  you  shall  have  heard  them  extol  your 
husband's  virtues,  you  will  feel  proud  to  be  called  wife 
by  the  foremost  man  in  all  Greece.     Will  you  come? 

Xan.  I  cannot;  it  shames  me  to  say  that  I  have  no 
gown  other  than  the  one  I  wear. 

Asp.     Then  Socrates  will  honor  us  by  his  presence  ? 

Xan.  He  shall  not;  his  clothing  is  no  better  than  a 
beggar's. 

\Enter  Pythias,  wife  of  Aristotle^ 

Xan.  Why,  here  comes  Pythias  !  She,  too,  has 
brought  me  tidings  of  my  crazy  husband. 


The  artist  should  have  three  objects:  To  move.,  to  interest,  to  persuade.  He 
interests  by  language;  he  moves  by  thought;  he  moves,  interests,  and  persuades 
by  gesture. — Delsarte. 


DitLSARTE  RECITATION'  BOOK.  87 

Pythias.  Not  crazy,  Xanthippe,  but  absolutely  un- 
like any  other  human  being  that  is  or  ever  has  been. 
You  may  imagine  Brasidas  to  have  been  like  Achilles, 
but  to  your  strange  husband  you  will  never  be  able  to 
find  any  likeness,  however  remote,  either  among  men 
who  now  are  or  who  have  ever  been.  I  heard  my  hus- 
band, Aristotle,  say  of  him,  and  he  is  no  mean  philos- 
opher himself,  that  the  words  of  Socrates  seem  ridicu- 
lous when  you  first  hear  them,  for  he  clothes  himself  in 
language  that  is  as  the  wanton  satyr.  He  talks  of 
smiths,  cobblers,  and  curriers,  and  he  is  always  repeat- 
ing tlie  same  things  in  the  same  words,  so  that  an  igno- 
rant man  who  did  not  know  him  might  be  disposed  to 
laugh  at  him. 

Xan.  Pj'^thias,  Socrates  is  crazy;  and  when  you  go 
home,  tell  Aristotle  that  Xanthippe,  his  wife,  says  she 
wishes  he  would  blister  Socrates'  head  ! 

Py.  Fie,  fie,  Xanthippe  !  how  wrong  you  are.  You 
are  out  of  patience  with  your  husband,  and,  like  the 
garbling  multitude,  see  only  the  outer  man.  Plato  says 
he  who  pierces  the  mask  and  sees  what  lies  within 
will  find  that  Socrates'  words  are  the  only  ones  which 
have  any  meaning  in  them;  that  his  wisdom  is  di- 
vine. 

Xan.  O,  Pythias  !  if  Socrates  would  think  less  and 
work  more  I  should  like  him  far  better  as  a  husband. 
Do  you  ladies  know  that  he  has  not  been  home  since 
yester  morn  at  breakfast  ?  I  am  told  that  he  stood  all 
night  on  the  market-place  thinking  over  some  problem 
concerning  the  life  of  the  soul  after  the  death  of  the 
body;  and  to-day  he  is  still  standing  there  prating  his 
wild  theories  to  a  crowd  of  listening  fools. 


You  cannot  in  an  instant  prepare  the  human  body  for  the  translation, 
through  that  grand  interpreter,  art,  of  the  test  possiHiities  of  the  soul. 
There  is  too  much  imperfection  in  our  nature. — Genevieve  Stebbins. 


88  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

\_Entcr  Ci.'E.OB\]'LA,t/ie  sister  of  Demosthenes,  bearing  a  beau- 
tiful basket  of  fruit. ^ 

Cleobula.  Good-morrow,  Xanthippe.  DemostheneS) 
my  brother,  has  just  returned  from  the  market-place, 
where  he  has  stood  all  night  watching  your  husband, 
deep  in  thought,  waiting  to  hear  him  speak.  He  says 
that  the  streets  were  filled  with  people  all  night  long; 
that  they  brought  their  mats  and  rugs  and  spread  them 
upon  the  ground,  and  that  not  an  eye  was  closed  or  an 
ear  deaf  during  the  whole  night..  Socrates  stood  silent, 
deep  in  thought.  To-day  light  seems  to  have  come  to 
him,  and  he  has  been  talking  for  hours.  He  has  told 
such  a  beautiful  story  about  a  life  beyond  the  grave;  of 
this  spirit,  this  soul  that  is  within  us,  that  shall  never 
die.  Demosthenes  says  that  Athens  has  gone  mad  over 
Socrates;  that  his  doctrines  are  so  new,  so  beautiful,  so 
comforting,  that  if  he  but  command  the  people,  they 
would  fall  down  and  worship  him  as  a  god. 

Xan.  Tell  Demosthenes  Xanthippe  says,  make  Soc- 
rates go  to  work.  This  is  the  message  from  his  starving 
wife. 

Cle.  I  dare  not  go  home  with  such  a  message.  See 
here,  he  has  sent  this  basket  of  fruit.  When  he  gave  it 
me  he  said:  "  Take  you  this  to  Xanthippe;  hasten,  sister 
mine,  to  bear  my  gratulations  to  the  wisest  man  in  all 
of  Greece."     Will  you  have  it  ? 

Xan.  Cleobula,  I  do  not  take  it  because  I  am  proud 
of  being  the  wife  of  Socrates,  but  because  I  am  starving 
and  crave  the  food.  Tell  him  that  Demosthenes  is  a 
greater  benefactor  than  Socrates,  for  he  feeds  the  wife 
whom  Socrates  would  starve  in  order  that  Socrates 
might  feed  the  world. 


Form  is  ike  garb  of  s::bsta7ice.  It  is  the  expressive  symbol  of  a  mysterious 
truth.  It  is  the  trademark  of  a  hidden  virtue.  It  is  the  actuality  of  the  be- 
ing.    In  a  word,  form  is  the  plastic  art  of  the  ideal. — Delsakte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  89 

Cle.  It  will  not  be  long,  I  ween,  before  your  hus- 
band will  return.  The  crowd  had  nearly  all  dispersed 
as  I  passed  the  market-place.  I  had  one  glimpse  of 
Socrates,  and  he  looked  worn  and  famished.  He  will 
need  refreshment  when  he  returns,  and  will,  no  doubt, 
enjoy  some  of  the  fruit  I  have  brought. 

Xan.  Not  a  morsel  of  it  shall  he  have.  I  will  give 
him  broth  and  barley  bread,  for  that  is  better  than  he 
deserves.  Look  you,  ladies,  is  not  this  fruit  beautiful 
and  tempting  ?  Methinks  if  I  could  only  be  well  fed  off 
cooling  fruits  like  these,  I  should  not  have  such  a  hot 
and  hasty  temper. 

\^Socraies   is  heard  calling    out,    '■'■Xanthippe!    Xanthippe! 
Xanthippe .'"] 

Xan.     Hark,  was  that  not  my  husband's  voice? 

Asp.  His  call  is  weak  and  faint;  answer  him,  Xan- 
thippe.    A  good  wife  regardeth  the  call  of  her  husband. 

\^Socrates  calls,  "  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  .'"] 

Sap.  Xanthippe,  I  pray  you  heed  your  husband's 
call. 

Phil.  Were  it  my  husband,  I  should  hasten  to  meet 
him. 

\Socrates  calls,  "  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  .'"] 

Py.  I  have  no  husband;  but  methinks  that  if  I  did 
have  one,  I  should  run  to  meet  him  before  he  had  occa- 
sion to  call. 

\Socratcs  calls,  "  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  .'"] 

Asp.     Woman,  I  pray  you  go  to  your  husband. 

Sap.  You  are  unworthy  of  such  a  husband,  and  the 
gods  should  curse  you  for  it. 

Xan.  Sappho,  she  who  comes  between  husband  and 
wife  treads  upon  a  dangerous  sea.     I  know  my  duty. 


The  followers  of  art  slioulii  he  able,  hi/ore  and  abo-.e  all,  to  portray  human- 
ity in  its  essential  truth,  ami  accoriiing  to  the  original  tendency  of  each  ty/>e. 
Mannerism  and  affectation  should  forever  be  proscribed — unless  they  are  imi- 
tated as  an  exercise. — Arnaud. 
I ^ 


90  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Phil.     I  pray  you  do  it,  then. 

\_Socrates  calls,  ''Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe!  Xanthippe  r'\ 

Py.  By  all  that  is  holy,  I  pray  you  answer  your 
husband. 

Cle.     Go  get  him  food  and  drink. 

\_Soc rates  calls,  '■'■Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe r'\ 

Dam.  Xanthippe,  if  you  are  human,  go  to  your  hus- 
band. Were  he  a  dog  and  did  bark  in  a  piteous  way,  I 
should  give  him  food  and  drink.  You  are  no  more  than 
an  ingrate  to  scorn  a  man  whom  all  Athens  is  ready  to 
fall  down  and  worship  as  a  god.  Were  I  Socrates,  I 
should  never  call  you  wife,  for  you  are  a  libel  on  such  a 
sacred  name.     Woman,  go  to  your  husband. 

Xan.  Who  commands  Xanthippe?  Damophila,  j^ou 
are  a  guest  beneath  my  roof,  or  else  that  speech  had 
been  your  last. 

Dam.  Pardon  me  again,  Xanthippe.  I,  like  you,  have 
too  hot  and  hasty  a  temper.  I  should  have  entreated, 
not  commanded.  Socrates  is  your  husband;  you  are 
bound  to  him  by  ties  the  strongest  and  holiest;  he  is 
weary  and  sick,  and  needs  your  service;  I  pray  you  go 
to  him. 

^Socrates  calls,  '■'Xanthippe!  Xanthippe  !  Xanthippe  !"^ 

Nic.  Xanthippe,  all  men  are  human.  Socrates  is  a 
man,  and  therefore  he  is  human.  I  beg  you  go  to  him 
and  minister  unto  him. 

[^Socrates  calls,  "Xanthippe!  Xanthippe!  Xanthippe  !"^ 

Xan.     Sir,  did  you  call  ? 

Socrates  [behind  the  scenes,  in  a  weak  voice~\.  Dearest 
mine,  I  am  sick  and  weak;  a  little  soup  and  barley 
bread,  if  you  please. 

Xan.     a  little  soup  and  barley  bread  I     I  would  you 


Gesture  is  the  direct  agent  of  the  heart.  It  is  the  fit  fnani/estat ion  o//eel- 
ing.  It  is  the  rei'ealer  of  thought,  and  the  cotniiientator  upon  speech.  It  is 
the  elliptical  expression  o_f  speech.  It  is  the  just i/icai ion  o/  the  additional 
tneanings  of  speech.  In  a  -word,  it  is  the  spirit  of  7vliicli  speech  is  merely  the 
letter. — Dels  arte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  91 

were  not  so  eiisily  contented.  You  wretched  man  of 
dreams,  if  you  would  but  turn  your  thoughts  from 
heaven  to  earth,  your  table  might  be  fit  for  kings.  Yes, 
I'll  come.  I'll  feed  you  until  you  are  well  satisfied  and 
ready  to  go  again  to  the  market-place  to  spend  the 
night  in  thinking,  thinking,  thinking. 
[  Curtain  falls.  ] 


THE  DOLL  DRILL. 


Adelaide  Norris. 


"POR  the  best  effect  in  this  charming  drill,  the  girls 
should  be  chosen  of  different  heights,  the  tallest 
pair  in  the  centre,  and  the  tiny  ones  at  both  ends. 
Their  ages  range  between  8  and  12  years.  They  are 
dressed  in  black  paper  cambric  dresses,  made  plain, 
with  full  skirts  reaching  to  within  three  inches  of  the 
floor.  The  white  nurse-apron  should  be  at  the  same 
distance  from  the  bottom  of  the  dresses,  and  tie  with 
strings  of  the  same  width.  White  mull  kerchiefs  around 
the  shoulders,  and  white  caps,  complete  the  costumes. 
The  dolls  wear  "baby  dresses"  of  muslin,  six  inches 
below  their  feet.  I  find  this  a  convenient  length  for 
handling  ;  besides,  it  looks  well. 

They  have  no  captain,  and  no  one  counts  for  them  or 
calls  the  changes.  A  very  slow  march  is  best.  When 
all  have  marked  time,  the  signal  is  given,  and  they 
come  out  in  pairs,  the  tallest  leading.  The  dolls  are 
carried  on  the  left  arm,  with  the  right  arm  placed  over 
them.  The  eyes  of  the  nurses  rest  on  the  dolls  until 
thev  face  the  audience. 


Conscious  mental  states  are  tnani/ested  by  the  play  o/  the  countenance,  by  | 
the  tones  of  the  voice,  and  by  gesture.     Unconscious  mental  states,  such  as  fixed  | 
fiortiis  or  tyf-es  of  character,  ivhi-ther  o/  thought,  emotion,  or  tvill,  manifest 
themselves  in  physiognomy  and  the  automatic  movements  of  the  body. — T.  M. 
Ballif.t. 


92  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

1.  March  to  centre,  turn  square  corner,  step  to  the 
front  of  stage  ;  line  divide  in  two  divisions,  march  to 
right  and  left,  turn,  march  half-way  to  the  back,  turn 
toward  centre  of  stage,  meet,  march  in  pairs  to  the 
back.  Then  separate,  march  along  the  back  to  the 
outer  sides  of  stage,  then  across  the  end  nearly  to  the 
front. 

2.  March  toward  each  other,  but  pass  by.  At  the 
edge  turn  and  march  back  as  if  to  meet,  but  pass  and 
turn  once  more.  Then  meet,  and  face  the  audience 
without  signal. 

The  music,  in  quadruple  time,  should  be  rather  slow. 
My  pupils  took  their  signal  from  the  fourth  note  of  the 
first  measure,  and  were  ready  for  the  first  full  measure. 
I  found  the  most  difficulty  in  getting  the  faces  expres- 
sive and  keeping  the  eyes  of  the  nurses  on  the  infants. 

Movements. 
Dolls  on  Arms  as  in  March. 

I.  Present.  Clasp  dolls  with  both  hands,  at  the  waist ; 
on  I  hold  at  arm's  length  till  3  ;  then  bring  back  to 
chin.  Repeat  three  times.  Bring  doll  back  to  position 
on  shoulder  on  third  beat  of  fourth  measure.    (Repeat  I.) 

II.  Support.  Hold  dolls  at  arm's  length  like  a  young 
baby,  lying  dow^n  on  the  left  hand  and  forearm.  On  3 
swing  back  to  left  hip.  Repeat  three  times.  On  3  of 
fourth  measure  bring  to  position  at  the  shoulder.  (Re- 
peat II.) 

III.  Toss.  Toss  dolls  four  times,  two  beats;  rest  four 
beats.  Repeat  three  times.  The  left  hand  should  sup- 
port the  doll,  the  right  hand  in  front  at  the  waist.  This 
movement  is  very  pretty  if  the  nurses  look  animated. 
(Repeat  III.) 

IV.  Affection.  Hold  dolls  at  the  front,  two  counts, 
bring  back  and  kiss,  two  counts.  Repeat,  filling  four 
measures.     (Repeat  IV.) 


Lack  of  elasticity  in  a  body  is  disagreeable  from  the  /act  ikat,  lacking  sup- 
pleness, it  seems  as  if  it  musty  in  /ailing,  be  broken,  flattened,  or  injured:  in 
a  -word,  must  lose  something o/ the  integrality  o/  its/orm. — Delsakte. 


DELSARTR  RECITATION  BOOK.  93 

V.  Obedience.  Mold  doll  in  left  hand  at  the  waist 
straight  out  in  front  ;  with  the  forefinger  of  the  right 
hand  make  the  gesture  to  indicate  that  doll  must  obey. 
Make  eight  movements  ;  return  doll  to  position  ;  rest 
two  measures.     Faces  of  nurses  expressive.     (Repeat  V.) 

VI.  Bows.  Dolls  face  audience  and  bow,  four  counts 
for  each  bow,  four  times.  Position  at  shoulder,  no  rest. 
Nurses'  heads  tipped  to  one  side  as  if  looking  to  see  the 
"pretty  bows."     (Repeat  VI.) 

VII.  Ch.^rgk.  Take  doll  in  hands,  the  right  hand  over 
and  the  left  hand  under  the  doll,  the  feet  on  the  nurse's 
left  hip,  the  head  pointing  out  a  little  obliquely  like  a 
"  bayonet  charge."  Stamp  heavily  with  left  foot,  eight 
counts.  Rest  in  position  at  shoulder,  eight  counts. 
(Repeat  VII.) 

VIII.  Compare.  Nurses  tip  heads  together,  two  by 
two  ;  place  dolls  side  by  side  for  comparison,  with 
pleased  expression.  On  ninth  count,  back  in  position. 
Rest  two  measures.     (Repeat  VIII.) 

IX.  Displeasure.  Hold  dolls  at  arm's  length,  with  ex- 
pression of  displeasure,  eight  counts.  Back  in  position, 
eight  counts.     (Repeat  IX.) 

X.  Forgiveness.  Hold  dolls  at  arm's  length,  eight 
counts  ;  hug  during  eight  counts,  with  dolls'  heads  over 
left  shoulder.     (Repeat  X.) 

Each  movement  requires  32  counts  to  make  the  music 
come  out  right.  After  a  few  rehearsals  the  children 
associate  the  movements  with  the  music  and  need  no 
"calls." 

After  Movement  X.,  the  dolls  are  dropped  to  the 
position  of  Movement  II.,  and  swung  gently,  while  the 
nurses  sing  one  verse  of  Brahm's  "  Lullaby,"  following 
it  with  the  chorus  of  tiie  Lullaby,  from  "Erminie." 
[The  words  and  music  for  these  are  on  pages  94,  95.] 
In  this  they  are  joined  by  an  invisible  chorus,  singing 
the  undertone  "  b)'e-bye."  On  commencing  this  latter 
selection,  tlie  house  is  gradually  darkened,  and  the 
nurses  march  off,  swinging  their  infants,  singing  raore 
softly. 
I 1 

//  is  not  u>hat  ive  say  that  persuades.,  but   the  manner  py  saying  it.      The 
mind  can  he  interested  by  speechy  it  must  be  f>ersuaded  by  gesture.     1/  the  /ace 
bears  no  sign  of  J>ersuasion,  ive  do  not  persuade.  —  Dklaumosne. 
4. 4. 


94 


DELS  ARTE  RECUSATION  BOOK. 


LULLABY. 
Arranged  from  Brahms  by  O.  E.  McFadon. 


l.Lul-  la  -by      aud  good-night 
2.  Lul  -   la   -by      and  good-night 


g=g3 


3=^^; 


Witli     ros  -   es        be- 
Thy     moth  -  er's      de- 


-25*- 


t^:-^t^- 


±jt. 


:f^J=tbf=:^t== 


— ^_ 


dight  With    lil-ies     be  -  sted     is       ba-by's  wee  bed  Lay  thee 
light  Bright   angels     a  -  ronnd  my     dar-ling  shall  stand  They  will 


=:i=:|: 
-•--•- 


L-4=d: 


iL— i-- 


H=^iE^S_± 


-^ 


-^— N- 


down  now  and  rest,  May  thy  slum-ber      be 
guard  thea  from  harm  Thou  shall  wake  in       my 


1/       1/ 
blest   Lay  thee 
arms  Thej'  ■will 


down  now  and  rest,    May  thy    slum  -  ber    be        blest, 
guide  thee  from  harm, Thou  shalt  wake    in      my        arms. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  95 

LULLABY. 

Arranged  from  "  Erminie"  by  0.  E.  McFajjon. 


Chorus. 


E^z^ 


znl_  ii(^:dV"i^ifc; 


:t=id 


i^ 


Bye  bye  drowsiness  o'ertaking,rretty  little  eyelids  sleep, 


^- 


:p^ 


Bve  bye       bve 


:p^ 


-w±. 


-W^ 


:^=^: 


T 


bye         Bye 


bye       bye  bye 


=.3p|Sp=^=d.|±d=|=:j^: 


-s*--5^ 


dim 


■A-A- 


:i|izj=!t=*=:i! 


I 


Bye  bye     watchinf^  till  thou  'rt  waking  Darling  be  thy  slumber  deep. 


fff  f-  r   r   r  r-  L   r-    1,  r-  *  ^ 


Bye  bve    bye      bye    Bye       bye    bye. 


m=i^z 


b=t 


!^^] 


-z^  -z^        s^  -s^        -z^ 


96  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE  BELL  OF  INNISFARE. 


[There  is  a  legend  of  the  "  Bell  of  Innisfare,"  that  if  those  who  are 
in  sickness  and  affliction  can  get  some  one  to  go  and  ring  the  bell  on 
Christmas  Eve,  at  twelve  o'clock,  there  is  a  charm  in  the  ringing  at 
that  particular  hour  which  will  restore  all  to  health  and  happiness.] 

"T^WAS  Christmas  Eve,  the  feast  so  dear 

To  little  ones  who  wait  its  cheer; 
For  Christmas  Eve,  where'er  it  be. 
Always  brings  songs,  and  joy,  and  glee. 
But  Christmas  Eve  with  all  thy  cheer, 
Thou  still  art  greeted  with  a  tear. 
Where,  in  a  cold  and  cheerless  room, 
Filled  by  the  twilight's  darkening  gloom, 
A  child  by  fever-bed  doth  watch, 
A  mother's  voice  and  look  to  catch; 
So  sad  to  her,  through  blinding  tears, 
The  joyous  Christmas  Eve  appears. 

She  sees  each  neighboring  house  grow  bright, 
Till  every  window  seems  alight, 
And  sounds  of  merriment  begin; 
She  hears  afar  the  happy  din. 
Her  heart  grows  sadder  still;  but  list  ! 
Their  songs  come  floating  through  the  mist, 
Their  voices  sound  so  sweet,  so  clear, 
That  each  word  she  can  plainly  hear. 

"  In  the  convent  of  Innisfare 
One  ruined  chapel  still  is  there; 
It  holds  a  bell  with  tone  so  fine. 
That  when  you  draw  the  slender  line, 
It  works  like  magic,  strange  and  rare, 
That  little  bell  of  Innisfare. 


In  the  vulgar  tnan  there  is  no  reaction.     In  the  man   of  distinction^  on  ike 
contrary^  motion  is  of  slight  extent,  attd  reaction  is  enormous. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.  gy 

That  little  bell  of  Innisfare 
Will  cure  your  sick,  if  you  but  dare 
On  Christmas  Eve,  at  midnight  hour, 
To  try  its  wondrous  healing  power; 
We  counsel  you  to  hurry  there. 
And  ring  the  bell  of  Innisfare." 

The  song  had  softly  passed  away. 
When  burst  from  her  who  suffering  lay 
A  sigh  so  deep,  and  full  of  smart. 
As  if  it  came  from  breaking  heart; 
And  then,  with  lips  and  voice  so  weak, 
In  feeble  accents  thus  did  speak: 

"Ah  !  that  sweet  bell  of  Innisfare, 
Oh!  if  your  father  had  been  there, 
Had  he  but  lived  till  now,  then  I 
Should  not  in  pain  and  sorrow  die  ; 
By  sickness  here  no  longer  bound. 
Mary,  my  child,  life  would  be  found, 
If  some  good  friend  could  now  go  there, 
And  ring  the  bell  of  Innisfare." 

Thus  far  she  spake,  then  sank  again. 
Stopped  by  the  leaden  weight  of  pain. 
Without,  the  night  grew  darker  still. 
And  silence  reigned  o'er  vale  and  hill; 
But  hark!  a  latch  is  drawn— nay,  more, 
Some  one  comes  through  the  creaking  door; 
It  is  a  girl,  so  small  and  slight. 
With  plaid  around  her  folded  tight. 
With  naked  feet  and  head  quite  bare, 
f. — H 

The  artist,  according  to  his  personal  poivir  of  inspiration,  should  be  able  to 
\  portray  a  totality  of  superior  and  harmonious  qualities,  such  as  ivill  compel 
any  competent  observer  to  recognize  it  as  beautiful. — Aknaid.  | 


98  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Exposed  to  storm  and  midnight  air; 
With  torch  and  staff  her  way  to  find, 
She  dashes  on  quick  as  the  wind. 

She  only  waited  but  to  say, 
j  "  May  God  protect  me  on  my  way." 

Up  hill,  through  vale  her  pathway  lay, 
'  Ever  with  step  so  swift  and  light. 

Oh  God  !  she's  stumbled  in  her  flight! 

Her  lantern's  broken  on  the  ground! 

Its  light  is  quenched,  'tis  dark  all  round. 

The  snow  comes  thicker,  faster  still. 

But  she  stops  not  for  frost  nor  chill; 

To  all  she  gives  no  heed  or  care, 

She  thinks  alone  of  Innisfare. 

Return  in  time,  the  ice  is  thin. 

It  cracks,  'tis  almost  breaking  in! 

From  block  to  block,  still  safe  from  ill. 

She  springs  to  land,  and  mounts  the  hill. 

The  ruined  chapel  she  must  find. 
With  pointed  tower  high  in  the  wind; 
From  the  old  tower  there  glances  far 
That  little  bell,  like  some  fair  star. 
The  door  is  open  to  her  feet; 
Her  work  of  love  is  now  complete. 
Now,  draw  the  rope  the  bell  to  ring, 
That  to  thy  mother  health  will  bring. 

What  seek'st  thou,  child  ?  why  wait'st  thou  on  ? 
Ring  it — oh,  woe!  the  rope  is  gone! 
There  at  her  feet,  decayed  and  worn. 
It  lies  in  fragments,  old  and  torn. 

The  soul  luhich  stofs  io  contemplate  its  win^s  7vill  never  rise. — Delsarte. 


A 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  99 

The  staircase,  too,  that  led  the  way, 
Has  fallen  to  time  and  fire  a  prey. 

Unhappy  child!     The  cruel  wind 

Seems  mocking  at  thy  faith,  unkind; 

In  vain  thou  cam'st  through  storm  and  snow, 

In  vain  o'er  icy  lakes  didst  go, 

Vain  thy  despairing,  upstretched  arm. 

To  ring  the  bell  thou  hast  no  charm. 

The  clock  now  strikes  the  midnight  hour — 
If  heaven  help  not,  who  else  has  power? 
She  knelt  and  prayed:  "  O  Saviour,  dear, 
Do  Thou  Thy  sorrowing  child  now  hear: 
My  mother  told  me  Thou  didst  come, 
Year  after  year,  to  each  child's  home  ; 
When  they  were  bad  Thou  past  didst  go, 
But  to  the  good  Thy  gifts  didst  flow. 
Oh,  now  remember  me,  I  pray. 
And  I  will  thank  Thee  day  by  day. 
If  health  and  strength  may  come  again 
To  my  poor  mother,  sick  with  pain!" 

And  faster  even  as  she  speaks. 

The  tears  stream  down  the  poor  child's  cheeks. 

But  ere  the  twelfth  stroke  of  the  clock 

Had  sounded  over  lake  and  rock, 

High  in  its  groove  tlie  bell  doth  move. 

And  swinging  wide,  from  side  to  side, 

Peal  after  peal  rings  in  the  air. 

It  rings,  the  bell  of  Innisfare! 


Gesture  is  the  direct  agent  of  the  souly  ivhile  language  is  analytic  and  sue 
cessive. — Delau.mosne. 


lOO         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

'Twas  God  that  heard  that  earnest  prayer, 
That  faith  and  love  had  offered  there; 
And  as  that  bell,  with  tone  so  clear. 
Rang  o'er  the  land,  the  child  could  hear, 
Mixed  in  its  tones,  like  angels'  song. 
Her  mother's  voice,  soft,  float  along. 
Saved  !  saved  !  it  said,  with  music  rare, 
The  little  bell  of  Innisfare. 


ANNE  HATHAWAY. 


/^NCE  on  a  time,  when  jewels  flashed, 
^-^^     And  moonlit  fountains  softly  splashed, 
And  all  the  air  was  sweet  and  bright 
With  music,  mirth,  and  deft  delight, 
A  courtly  dame  drew,  laughing,  near 

A  poet — greatest  of  his  time. 
And  chirped  a  question  in  his  ear, 

With  voice  like  silver  bells  in  chime: 
"Good  Mr.  Shakespeare,  I  would  know 

The  name  thy  lady  bore,  in  sooth. 
Ere  thine.     Nay,    little  time  ago 

It  was — for  we  still  mark  her  3'outh; 
Some  high-born  name,  I  trow,  and  yet, 
Altho'  I've  heard  it,  I  forget." 
Then  answered  he,  with  dignity, 
Yet  blithely — for  the  hour  was  gay, 
"My  lady's  name — Anne  Hathaway." 

"And  good,  sweet  sir,"  the  dame  pursued, 
Too  fair  and  winsome  to  be  rude. 


Art  is  the  telescope  o/ a  supernatural  world. — Delsarth. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  loi 

"  'Tis  whispered  here  and  whispered  there, 
By  doughty  knights  and  ladies  fair, 
That — that — well,  that  her  royal  lord 

Does  e'en  obey  her  lightest  will. 
Now,  my  good  spouse— I  pledge  iny  word — 

Tho'  loving  well  doth  heed  me  ill; 
How  art  thou  conquered,  prithee,  tell," 

She  pleaded  with  her  pretty  frown; 
"I  fain  would  know  what  mighty  spell 

Can  bring  a  haughty  husband  down." 
She  ceased,  and  raised  her  eager  face 
To  his,  with  laughing,  plaintive  grace. 
Then  answered  he,  with  dignity, 
Yet  blithely— for  the  hour  was  gay, 
"Ah,  lady,  I  can  only  say 
Her  name  again  — Anne  Hath — a — way." 


THE  MINISTER'S  HOUSEKEEPER. 


Harriet  Befxiier  Stowe.     Arranged  hy  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


T^^AL,  you  see,  when  Parson  Carryl's  wife  died,  my 
cousin  Huldy  undertook  to  keep  house  for  him. 
She  was  jest  as  handsome  a  gal  to  look  at  as  a  feller 
could  have,  and  a  nice,  well-behaved  young  gal.  I've 
walked  ten  miles  of  a  Sunday  mornin'  jest  to  play  the 
bass-viol  in  the  same  singers'  seat  with  her.  But  you 
know  how  'tis  in  parishes  ;  there  allers  is  women  that 
thinks  the  minister's  affairs  belongs  to  them.  And  so 
Mis'  Pipperidge  and  Mis'  Deakin  Blodgett  and  Mis' 
Sawin  got  their  heads  together  a-talkin'  about  things. 


Affectation  is  in  the  arts  the  equi7<aUnt  of  sophistry  in  logic,  of  the  /tilse  in 
tnorals,  o/ hypocrisy  in  religion. — Arnai  R. 


102         DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Poor  man,"  says  Mis'  Pipperidge,  "  what  can  that 
child  do  toward  takin'  the  care  of  all  that  place  !  It 
takes  a  mature  woman  to  tread  in  Mis'  Carryl's  shoes." 

"  That  it  does,"  says  Mis'  Blodgett;  "  and  when  things 
once  get  to  runnin'  down  hill,  there  ain't  no  stoppin'  on 
'em,"  says  she. 

Then  Mis'  Sawin  she  took  it  up.  "  I  must  say,  Huldy's 
a  gal  that's  always  too  ventersome  about  takin'  'sponsi- 
bilities  she  don't  know  nothin'  about." 

Wal,  the  upshot  on't  was,  they  fussed  till  they'd 
drinked  up  all  the  tea  in  the  tea-pot,  and  then  they 
went  down  and  called  on  the  parson,  and  told  him  that 
it  was  no  way  to  leave  everything  to  a  young  chit  like 
Huldy,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  lookin'  about  for  an 
experienced  woman.  The  parson  he  thanked  'em,  but 
he  thought  to  himself,  "  Huldy  is  a  good  gal  ;  but  I 
oughtn't  to  be  a-leavin'  everything  to  her, — it's  too  hard 
on  her.  I  ought  to  be  instructin',  and  guidin',  and 
helpin'  of  her."  So  at  it  he  went  ;  and  Lordy  massy  ! 
didn't  Huldy  hev  a  time  on't  when  the  minister  began 
to  come  out  of  his  study,  and  went  to  see  to  things  ! 

"  Huldy,"  says  he  one  day,  "you  ain't  experienced  out 
doors,  and  when  you  want  to  know  anything  you  must 
come  to  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  says  Huldy. 

"  Now,  Huldy,"  says  the  parson,  "  you  must  be  sure  to 
save  the  turkey-eggs,  so  that  we  can  have  a  lot  of  turkeys 
for  Thanksgiving." 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  she;  and  she  opened  the  pantry-door 
and  sliowed  him  a  nice  dishful  she'd  been  a-savin'  up. 
Wal,  the  next  day  the  parson's  hen-turkey  was  found 
killed.     Huldy,  she  felt  bad  about  it,  'cause  she'd  set  her 

A ^ ; • 

//  is  not  absolutely  true  to  say  that  the  head  is  in  the  eccentric  state  because 
it  is  raised:  /or  it  may  be  that,  raised  as  it  is,  the  direction  of  the  eye  may  be 
even  higher  than  it,  and,  in  that  case,  the  head  might,  although    raised,  pre- 
sent the  aspect  of  the  concentric  state. — Delsarte. 
> — ^ 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  103 

heart  on  raisin'  the  turkeys,  and  says   she,  "Oil,  dear! 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

**  Do,  Huldy?"  says  the  parson;  "why  there's  the 
other  turkey  ;  out  there  by  the  door  and  a  fine  bird, 
too,  he  is." 

Sure  enough,  there  was  the  old  torn-turkey  a-struttin' 
and  a-sidlin'  and  a-quitterin'  and  a-floutin'  his  tall- 
feathers  in  the  sun,  like  a  lively  young  widower,  all 
ready  to  begin  life  over  again. 

"But,"  says  Huldy,  "you  know  he  can't  set  on  eggs." 

"He  can't?  I'd  like  to  know  why,"  says  the  parson. 
"  He  shall  set  on  eggs,  and  hatch  'em,  too.  What  else 
be  they  good  fer?  You  jest  bring  out  the  eggs,  now, 
and  put  'em  in  the  nest,  and  I'll  make  him  set  on  'em." 

"  O  doctor  !"  says  Huldy,  all  in  a  tremble  ;  cause,  you 
know,  she  didn't  want  to  contradict  the  minister,  "I 
never  heard  that  a  tom-turkey  would  set  on  eggs." 

But  she  took  the  eggs  out,  and  fixed  *em  all  nice  in 
the  nest;  and  then  she  come  back  and  found  old  Tom 
a-skirmishin*  with  the  parson  pretty  lively,  I  tell  ye. 
Ye  see,  old  Tom  didn't  take  to  the  idee  at  all  ;  and  he 
flopped  and  gobbled,  and  fit  the  parson  ;  and  the  par- 
son's wig  got  'round  so  that  his  cue  stuck  out  straight 
over  his  ear  ;  but  he'd  got  his  blood  up.  Ye  see,  the  old 
doctor  was  used  to  carryin'  his  p'ints  o'  doctrine,  so 
finally  he  made  a  dive,  and  ketched  him  by  the  neck 
and  stroked  him  down,  and  put  Huldy's  apron  'round 
him. 

"  There,  Huldy,"  he  says,  quite  red  in  the  face,  "  we've 
got  him  now  ;"  and  he  travelled  off  to  the  barn  with 
him  as  lively  as  a  cricket. 

Huldy  came  behind,  jest  chokin'  with  laugh. 
J. _J . 

The  first  great    thing  to  be   acquired    xs    flexibility  of  the  joints.     Free   the 
\  channels  0/ t-xpressiott:,  and  the    current  o/  nervous  force  can  rush  through 
them  as  a  stream  of  water  rushes  through  a  channel,  uncloggied  by  obstacles. 
I  —Genevieve  Stebbins. 
4. . Ju 


I04  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Now,  Huldy,  we'll  crook  his  legs  and  set  him  down," 
says  the  parson,  when  they  got  to  the  nest  ;  "  you  see 
he  is  gettin'  quiet,  and  he'll  set  there  all  right." 

And  the  parson  he  sot  him  down,  and  old  Tom  he  sot 
there  solemn  enough,  and  held  his  head  down  all 
droopin',  lookin'  like  a  rail  pious  old  cock,  as  long  as 
the  parson  sot  by  him. 

"  Tliere,  you  see  how  still  he  sets,"  says  the  parson. 

Huldy  was  'most  dyin'  for  fear  she  should  laugh. 
"I'm  afraid  he'll  get  up,"  says  she,  "when  you  do." 

"  Oh,  no,  he  won't,"  says  the  parson,  quite  confident. 
''  There,  there,"  says  he,  layin'  his  hands  on  him,  as  if 
pronouncin'  a  blessin'.  But  when  the  parson  riz  up, 
old  Tom  he  riz  up  too,  and  began  to  march  over  the 
eggs. 

"  Stop,  now  !"  says  the  parson.  "I'll  make  him  get 
down  agin  ;  hand  me  that  corn-basket  ;  we'll  put  that 
over  him."  So  he  crooked  old  Tom's  legs  and  got  him 
down  agin  ;  and  they  put  the  basket  over  him,  and  then 
they  both  stood  and  waited. 

"That'll  do  the  thing,  Huld}-,"  says  the  parson. 

"I  don't  know  about  it,"  says  Huldy. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  will,  child.  I  understand,"  says  he.  Jest 
as  he  spoke  the  basket  riz  right  up  and  stood,  and  the)'' 
could  see  old  Tom's  long  legs. 

"I'll  make  him  stay  down,  confound  him,"  says  the 
parson  ;  for,  ye  see,  parsons  is  men,  like  the  rest  on  us, 
and  the  doctor  had  got  his  spunk  up.  "You  jest  hold 
him  a  minute,  and  I'll  get  somethin'  that'll  make  him 
stay,  I  guess  ;"  and  out  he  went  to  the  fence,  and 
brought  in  a  long,  thin,  flat  stone,  and  laid  it  on  old 
Tom's  back. 


Dynamic  reflections  are  produced  by  three  movements:  direct  movements^ 
rotary  movements,  and  movements  of  flexion    in  the  arc  ofl  a  circle. — Del- 

SARTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  105 

01(1  Tom  he  wilted  down  considerable  under  this, 
and  looked  railly  as  if  he  was  goin'  to  give  in.  He 
stayed  still  there  a  good  long  spell,  and  the  minister  and 
Iluldy  left  him  and  come  up  to  the  house  ;  but  they 
hadn't  more  than  got  in  the  door  before  they  see  old 
Tom  a-hippin'  along,  as  high  steppin'  as  ever,  sayin' 
"Talk!  talk!  talk!"  and  "quitter!  quitter!  quitter!" 
and  struttin'  and  gobblin'. 

"  Oh,  my  eggs  !"  says  Huldy,  "  I'm  afraid  he's  smashed 
them  !" 

And  sure  enough,  there  they  was,  smashed  fiat  enough 
under  the  stone. 

Wal,  next  week  Huldy  she  jest  got  a  lot  o'  turkey- 
eggs  and  set  a  hen  on  'em,  and  said  nothin';  and  in  good 
time  there  was  as  nice  a  lot  o'  turkey-chicks  as  ever  ye 
see. 

Not  long  arter  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  Huldy 
ought  to  have  a  pig  to  be  a-fattin'  with  the  buttermilk, 
and  old  Tim  Bigelow  told  him  if  he'd  call  over  he'd 
give  him  a  little  pig.  So  he  went  for  a  man,  and  told 
him  to  build  a  pig-pen  out  by  the  well,  and  have  it  all 
ready  when  he  come  home  with  the  pig. 

Wal,  the  carpenter  he  didn't  come  till  most  the  mid- 
dle of  the  arternoon;  and  then  he  sort  o'  idled,  fixed  the 
well-curb,  and  went  of?  and  said  he'd  come  and  do  the 
pig-pen  next  day.  Wal,  arter  dark.  Parson  Carryl  he 
driv  into  the  yard,  full  chizel,  with  the  pig.  He'd  tied 
up  his  mouth  to  keep  him  from  squeelin';  and  he  see 
what  he  thought  was  the  pig-pen — he  was  rather  near- 
sighted,— and  so  he  ran  and  threw  piggy  over,  and  went 
into  the  house  quite  delighted. 


Probably  not  one  man  in  a  hundreii  ever  stopped  to  think  that  he  cannot 
make  a  single  gesture  with  the  unconscious  grace  of  a  child  or  an  animal, /or 
the  simple  reason  that  an  arbitrary  volition  is  so  impacted  in  each  muscle  that 
he  controls  every  sinezv  artijlcially  without  knowing  it.  He  is  unconsciously 
constricted  from  head  to  foot.— tiyiA  Crinkle. 
, —^ 4. 


io6  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"There,  Huldy,  I've  got  you  a  nice  little  pig,"  says 
he. 

"  Dear  me  !"  says  Huldy;  "  where  have  you  put  him  ?" 

"Why,  out  there  in  the  pig-pen,  to  be  sure." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !"  says  Huldy,  "that's  the  well-curb; 
there  ain't  no  pig-pen  built,"  says  she. 

"  Lordy  massy  !"  says  the  parson.  "  Then  I've  thrown 
the  pig  in  the  well !" 

Wal,  Huldy  she  worked  and  worked,  and  finally  she 
fished  piggy  out  in  the  bucket,  but  he  was  dead  as  a 
door-nail  ;  and  she  got  him  out  o'  the  way  quietly,  and 
didn't  say  much  ;  and  the  parson,  he  took  to  a  great 
Hebrew  book  in  his  study,  and  says  he,  "  Huldy,  I  ain't 
much  in  temporals,"  says  he. 

Wal,  Mis'  Deakin  Blodgett  an'  Mis'  Pipperidge  begun 
to  talk  that  it  railly  wasn't  proper,  such  a  young  gal  to  be 
stayin'  there,  who  everybody  could  see  was  a-settin'  her 
cap  for  the  minister.  Mis'  Pipperidge  said  that  so  long 
as  she  looked  on  Huldy  as  the  hired  gal  she  hadn't 
thought  much  about  it;  but  Huldy  was  takin'  on  airs  as 
an  equal,  an'  appearin'  as  mistress  o'  the  house  in  a 
way  that  would  make  talk  if  it  went  on.  And  Mis' 
Pipperidge  she  driv  'round  up  to  Deakin  Abner  Snow's, 
and  down  to  Mis'  'Lijah  Perry's,  and  asked  them  if  they 
wasn't  afraid  that  the  way  that  the  parson  and  Huldy 
was  a-goin'  on  might  make  talk. 

Finally  Mis'  Sawin  she  says  to  Huldy,  "  My  dear, 
didn't  you  never  think  that  folk  would  talk  about  you 
and  the  minister?" 

"  No  ;   why  should  they  ?"  says  Huldy,  quite  innocent. 

"  Wal,  dear,"  says  she,  "  I  think  it's  a  shame  ;  but  they 
say  you're  tryin'  to  catch  him." 


Outward  gesture  being  only  the  echo  o/  the  inward  gesture  which  gaTe 
birth  to  it  and  rules  it,  should  be  inferior  to  it  in  development,  and  should  be 
in  some  sort  diaphanous. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  107 

Iluldy  was  a  gal  o'  spirit,  but  it  made  her  drefful  un- 
comfortable. The  minister  he  had  the  same  thing  from 
one  of  his  deakins,  and  when  he  saw  Huldy  so  kind  o' 
silent,  he  says  to  her,  "What's  the  matter,  my  child  ?" 

"Oh,  sir  !"  says  Huldy,  "  is  it  improper  for  me  to  be 
here  ?" 

"  No,  dear,"  says  the  minister,  "  but  ill-natured  folks 
will  talk;  but  there  is  one  way  we  can  stop  it,  Huldy — 
if  you  will  marry  me.  You'll  make  me  very  happy,  and 
I'll  do  all  I  can  to  make  you  happy.     Will  you  ?" 

Next  Sunday  mornin',  when  the  minister  walked  up 
the  aisle  with  Huldy,  all  in  white,  arm-in-arm  with  him, 
and  he  opened  the  minister's  pew,  and  handed  her  in  as  if 
she  was  a  princess,  wal,  I  guess  there  was  a  rustlin' 
among  the  bunnets.  Mis'  Pipperidge  gin  a  great  bounce, 
like  corn  poppin'  on  a  shovel,  and  her  eyes  glared 
through  her  glasses  at  Huldy  as  if  they'd  a  sot  her 
a-fire;  and  everybody  in  the  meetin'-house  was  a-starin', 
I  tell  ye. 

Wal,  arter  meetin'  they  all  come  'round  the  parson 
and  Huldy  at  the  door,  shakin'  hands  and  laughin';  for 
by  that  time  they  was  about  agreed  that  they'd  got  to 
let  putty  well  alone. 

"  Why,  Parson  Carryl,"  says  Mis'  Deakin  Blodgett, 
"how  you've  come  it  over  us." 

"Yes,"  says  the  parson,  with  a  kind  o'  twinkle  in  his 
eye.  "I  thought,"  says  he,  "as  folks  wanted  to  talk 
about  Huldy  and  me,  I'd  give  'em  somethin'  wuth 
talkin'  about." 


Unlike  speech,  ivhiih  differs  with  different  nationalities,  the  language  of 
gesture  is  the  same  among  all  classes,  luirying only  in  degree  or  intensity.  A 
Frenchman  uses  the  same  muscles  to  express  approval  that  an  Italian  uses:  a 
Russian  frowns  as  does  an  American,  given  the  same  emotion.  A  n  English- 
man manifests  disgust  by  the  action  of  certain  mouth-muscles,  under  the 
same  emotion,  as  does  an  American  Indian. — Mrs.  Frank  Sti'art  Parkbr.- 


lo8  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  SEDAN. 


Anna  Katherine  Green  Rohlfs. 

T   HAD  seen  him  in  battle,  and  he  was  a  man 

To  watch  in  a  conflict.     I'd  seen  him  when  death 
Struck  down  at  his  feet  the  one  comrade  he  loved; 
But  never  before,  upon  field  or  in  camp. 
Had  beheld  in  his  face  such  a  look  of  the  grave 
As  he  brought  yester  night  to  the  door  of  my  tent. 
So  dread  in  suggestion  of  anguish,  I  leapt 
In  dismay  to  my  feet.     Was  he  ill?      Was  he  hurt? 

But  at  that 
He   was  straight  at  my  side  with   a   bound.     "Ay,  in 

grief  ! 
And  you  talk  of  it,  you  !   talk  of  grief  !  but  'tis  easy. 
We  all  talk  of  grief.     But  enough:  I  must  tell 
You  the  whole  or  go  mad.     My  friend,"  and  his  eyes 
Glared  wildly  on  mine  through  his  thick,  fallen  hair — 
"  Have  you  loved?     Yes?     In  the  pause 
Of  the  death-dealing  guns  one  may  ask,  may  he  not, 
Such  a  question  as  that  of  a  man  ?" 

For  reply 
I  drew  from  my  bosom  a  (^url  that  I  kissed. 
And    put    back    on    my    heart    without    words.      'Twas 

enough; 
He  bent  down  at  my  side  with  a  cry:  "  Is  she  fair? 
Has  she  eyes  like  a  dove  and  a  step  like  a  deer, 
So  gentle  and  wild  ?     Do  you  love  her — O  heaven! — 
With  the  force  of  your  body,  your  spirit,  and  heart  ? 
Ah!  'tis  folly  to  ask.     A  woman  must  die 

J. ; ^ 

r      Every  tone  necessarily  contains  the  ionic,  its  generator,  the  dominant,  its  en-  I 
I  f^ettdered,  and  the  mediant,  which  proceeds  from  the  other  two.     The  reunion 

of  these  three  tones,  which   makes  thetn  into  one, forms  the  perfect  chord. — 

Dei.sarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  109 

Or  turn  false  to  be  loved  so.     Pray  heaven 

You  may  die  ere  you  come  lo  a  passion  like  that!" 

Looking  down, 
He  took  from  his  finger  a  ring,  and  then  said: 
"She  was  pledged   to   me,  friend;  was  my  hope  from  a 

child; 
Was  my  life,  you  might  say.     In  the  mesh  of  her  glance 
All  my  being  was  thralled.     Not  a  dawn  rose  upon  me 
But  I  woke  with  the  thought  of  her  beauty.     Ah,  I  know 
Such  a  love  is  not  good,  that  its  passion  undoes 
What  its  purity  makes;  but  a  man  cannot  choose 
His  fate  from  the  heavens,  and  this  love,  as  it  was, 
Was  my  fate. 

"  Well,  her  heart  gave  response  to  my  suit, 
And  we  had  been  wedded  two  long  years  ago. 
But  love  is  ambitious.     To  give  her  a  home 
I  left  her,  and,  far  from  her  voice  and  her  smile. 
Worked   my   way   up   to   fortune.     Oh,   the   long,  long 

moViths! 
But  they  passed,  and  at  length 

Came  the  day  of  return.     Ah,  that  day  !  Like  a  flame 
It  flares  ever  before  me.     Her  looks  and  her  smiles 
Will  not  flit,  will  not  fly.     As  we  walked  up  the  street 
The  bells  broke  out  ringing.     For  three  months  of  doom 
I  have  heard  them;  they  never  have  ceased  in  my  ears. 

"  But  no  dwelling  on  that.      'Tis  enough 
I  was  happ}^  that  day.     Ah,  you  wonder  what  now! 
You,  sitting  at  ease  in  your  tent,  with  the  tress 
Of  a  tender,  true  woman  like  balm  on  5'our  breast, 
Wonder  what  could  have  turned  all  this  rapture  to  woe 


i 


It  is  not  ideas  that  ttioTC  the  tiiasses:  it  is  gestures.  We  easily  reach  the 
heart  and  soul  through  the  senses.  Music  acts  es/'ecially  on  the  senses.  It 
purifies  them,  it  gires  intelligence  to  the  hand,  it  disposes  the  heart  to  prayer. 

Dki.aumosne. 

f 


no  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

In  a  moment.     Ah,  God!   'twas  not  much,  not  much! 
Only  this:  When  I  rose  in  the  dusk  from  my  guests 
('Twas  my  wedding-eve,  friend)  my  beloved  was  gone  ! 
Yes,  yes,  gone  as  certain  as  joy — 
Gone,  gone,  gone,  gone  !     Not  a  word  of  farewell, 
Not  a  look;  just  that  smile  that  was  love,  or  like  love, 
And  then  this  great  gulf. 

"  Oh,  may  the  world 
Grow  old  and  shrink  up  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord 
Ere  another  night  creep  by  like  that!     Not  till  morn 
Did  they  tell  me  the  whole — how  for  weeks  he  had  been 
In  the  town  by  her  side;  stealing  up  in  the  dusk 
To  drop  a  stray  rose  in  her  hand — I  say 
It  was  not  until  morning  they  told  me  all  this; 
Meantime  she  was  gone. 

"Well,  I  lived — lived  to  seek  him. 
Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?     By  the  chances  of  war 
You  have  been  in  your  time  the  hunted,  spent  deer. 
Have   you   e'er   been    the   hound  ?     Can  you  reckon  of 

days 
When,  with  fire  in  your  blood  and  revolt  in  your  brain, 
You  wandered  the  world  with  your  eyes  on  the  face 
Of  each  man  that  you  met?     And  the  nights — 
The  nights  without  sleep,  and   the  dreams, 
The  visions  that  swam  in  the  air,  and  made  hot 
The  breath  of  the  north  wind;  the  doubts  and  the  hopes  ! 

"  For  three  months  I  lived  thus, 
And  then  came  despair.     From  the  German  frontier 
Rose  a  clamor  for  soldiers.     I  heard,  and  grew  calm. 


The  most  powerful  of  all  gestures  is  that  which  affects  the  spectator  without 
his  knoiuing  it. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  iii 

'  It  is  well  !'     I  exclaimed.     '  Men  are  shot  in  the  field; 
Let  the  enemy  slay  me.'     So  I  came  to  the  war." 

He  paused  here  a  moment,  and  drew  from  his  breast 
A  crumpled  white  paper,  streaked  over  with  blood, 
And  laid  it  before  me. 

"  You  say  this  was  anguish,"  he  cried,  "  but  I  say 

It  was  nothing — just  nothing.     My  friend,  can  you  think 

What  it  were,  or  might  be,  if  the  woman  you  love — 

Nay,  nay,  hear  me  out — should  be  walking  above 

The  horrid,  steep  side  of  a  gulf,  and  you  saw 

Her  footsteps  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  and  yet 

Were   too   far  to   shriek    warning;  and   at   last,  as   you 

looked. 
Behold  her  slip  over  ! — those  eyes  that  you  love, 
The  forehead,  the  hair — saw  her  struggle  and  catch 
At   some   dizzy   small   branch  that   would   hold    but  a 

breath, 
And  you  yet  afar?     Can  you  think  what  it  were 
To  hear  her  shriek  out  with  assurance  you'd  heed 
And    would   come,  and    that  instant,  while  heaven  and 

earth 
Were  one  glare,  and  you  rushed,  to  be  caught,  man,  be 

caught 
In  a  network  of  hell  which  you  could  not  escape, 
While  she — your  heart's  own — O  death  !  Yet  is  that 
My  soul-torment.     Look  here  !"  and    his  shaking  hand 

smoothed 
The  white  paper  before  me.     "  Did  you  think  she  was 

false  ? 


Exceptional  talents  require  an  exceptional  public  ivho  can  understand  them 
and  make  them  popular  by  applauding  and  explaining  them. — Arnaud. 


112         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

She   was  true,  friend,  was  true;   true  as  light,  true   as 

heaven. 
I  have  known  it  three  hours. 

"  Beguiled,  do  you  see? 
Wooed  away  from  my  side  with  some  smooth,  hurried 

tale. 
Till  the  length  of  the  garden  lay  'twixt  us.     Ah!  ah! 
Is  there  vengeance  in  hell  for  such  villains  ?    The  rest  ? 
You  can  guess  how  it  happened— his  sudden  appeal — 
The  carriage— the  horses— her  cry  which  we  heard  not— 
The  rush  and  the  night.     Do  you  doubt  it  is  true  ? 
It  is  written  here.     See  the  tremulous  lines 
How   they   cross    and    recross.      But    she's    true!     'tis 

enough. 
Do  you  see  all  my  anguish  ?" 

With  hand  and  with  voice 
I  strove  in  my  pity  to  calm  him;  but  he. 
Staggering   backward,  went  on:   " 'Tis  not  all.     She  is 

held 
In   his  power  by  his  spies  !  he  w^ould  \ved  her— great 

heaven! 
Make  her  countess  or  something;  just  stab  her,  I  say! 
And  she  calls  me,  entreats  me  by  all  I  adore. 
To  come  quick.     Ha,  ha!  "  and  his  awful  laugh  whirled 
On  the  night  wind.     "Come  quick!  And  I'm  bound! 

"How  it  came  to  this  spot,  when,  I  know  not. 
It  was  put  in  my  hand  as  I  strode  from  the  field 
By  some  one  who  cried,  '  If  you  hasten,  perhaps 
You  have  time  still  to  save  her.'     Away  to  the  chief 
* — 


Sound  contains  three  sounds:  that  of  the  tonic,  the  dominant ,  and  the  me- 
diant. The  tonic  (Father)  necessarily  generates  the  dominant  (Son),  and  the 
mediant  (Holy  Ghost)  proceeds  necessarily  /rout  the  first  /7W(7.— Dei.sakte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  113 

I  hurried,  a  madman.     What  was  France  to  me  now, 
Or  the  world?     I  fell  down  at  his  feet  in  despair; 
Told   him  all;  showed  my  billet — in  vain,  all  in  vain! 
And  to-morrow's  the  day  of  the  battle!" 

As  in  that 
He  had  touched  the  whole  depth  of  liis  woe,  he  flung  up 
His  arms  to  the  sky  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Sank  down  like  one  shot.     When  I  rose  from  his  side. 
The  dread  morn  of  battle  flamed  high  in  the  east. 

Do  you  ask  me  for  more?     Lift  the  end  of  that  cloth 
And  behold  !  It  is  calm  now,  you  see,  sirs,  quite  calm. 
'Twas  not  so  yester  eve.     When  he  fell,  all  the  din 
Of  the  battle  served  not  to  o'erwhelm  from  my  ears 
The  shriek  that  he  gave. 


HAUNTED  BY  A  SONG. 


Translated  and  Ad,\pted  from  the  French. 

[Those  who  have  heard  a  catching  melody  at  the  opera  and  have  been 
haunted  by  it  for  days,  under  all  circumstances — and  who  has  not  thus 
suffered  ? — will  appreciate  this  monologue.  In  each  place  where  the 
word  is  repeated  several  times,  the  reciter  will  fit  them  to  the  tune  of 
the  song  and,  of  course,  sing  them. — EorrOR.] 

Jones  [^enters,  pale  and  haggard \ 

T    AM  all  out  of  sorts  ;  I  am  miserable,  I  am  wretched. 

I  am  ciuite  a  different  creature  from  what  I  was  two 

days  ago.     I  was  all  right  then.     I  went  to  the  theatre, 

to  the  Casino.     The  play  they  gave  was  awfully  funny. 

There  was  a  young  lady  in    it,  and   a   young  man  who 


//  is  easy  to  disting^iish  the  man  e/ head,  o/ heart,  and  c/" action.  The  first 
makes  many  gestures  of  the  head:  the  second  many  of  the  shoulders;  the  last  | 
moves  the  arms  often  and  inappropriately. — Delaumosne. 


114 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


Music  of  Song  in  ^'■Haunted  by  a  Song." 
Allegretto. 


•8: 


:fi; 


t7 


Z=& 


i=^=4 


njtzii^r 


a^ 


^-1=, 


wanted  to  marry  the  young  lady,  and  some  people  who 
wanted  to  prevent  the  marriage,  and  some  more  people 
who  wanted  the  marriage  to  take  place — in  short,  I  for- 
get all  that  happened,  but   it  came  out  all  right;    they 


Inflection  is  the  life  of  speech;  the  mind  lies  in  the  articulative  values.^  in 
the  distribution  of  these  articulations  and  their  progressions.  The  soul  of 
speech  is  in  gesture. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  115 

jrot  married  in  the  end.  Then  tliey  were  all  very  happy, 
and  they  sang  a  song,  tra  la  la  la  la  la,  etc.  {^Sings  the 
7vhole  tiinc.\ 

Of  course,  I  felt  happy,  too,  as  I  left  the  theatre,  for 
it  was  such  a  pretty  air.  It  was  very  cold.  I  turned  up 
my  collar  around  my  cars  and  hurried  home,  tra  la  la  la, 
etc.  When  I  reached  my  door,  I  rang  the  bell,  ding, 
ding,  ding,  ding,  ding,  ding.  I  live  on  the  top  floor;  I 
climbed  the  stairs  quietly  \singing  iiiulcr  Ins  bii'ath\  tra  la 
la  la  la  la  la  la  la.  I  lighted  my  candle  la  la,  undressed 
la  la  la,  got  into  bed  and  fell  asleep.  ^Snores  on  the  same 
tune.  ] 

The  next  morning  when  I  awoke  the  weather  was 
superb,  and  I  was  in  excellent  mood  !  I  sprang  up,  tra 
la  la  la,  plunged  my  head  in  the  water,  fi  fl  fl  fl  fl  fl.  I 
was  in  the  best  of  spirits!  Somebody  knocked  at  my 
door.  I  went  to  open;  it  was  my  landlady,  who  handed 
in  a  letter.  \^Makcs  the  motion  of  opening  the  letter  and 
redding,  7C'hile  he  sings.^  Tra  la  la  la  la  la  la — oh!  dear 
me!  my  poor  aunt!  on  her  death-bed!  Quick!  my  hat, 
my  overcoat,  my  umbrella!  I  reach  the  street,  I  hail  a 
cab — "Coachman,  Grand  Central  depot!  A  dollar  extra 
for  you  if  you  go  fast,  fast,  fast,  fast!" 

I  reached  the  station,  left  my  umbrella  behind  me  in 
the  cab,  cab,  cab.  No  matter,  I  caught  the  train,  train, 
train!  \^Oi/t  of  breath^  It  was  the  express,  press,  press, 
press. 

My  poor  aunt  !  I  was  fond  of  my  poor  aunt,  even  if 
she  were  only  an  aunt  by  marriage.  When  I  arrived  she 
died  in  my  arms.  I  was  distressed,  tressed,  tressed! 
Oh!  I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  this  tune.     I  had  to  attend 


The  human  body  may  be  regarded  as  the  e.r/>>essioti  of  the  soul.  Hence  it 
is  possible  to  read  a  mati's  character,  and  even  his  very  thoughts,  in  his  coun- 
tenance and  manner.  Hence  e^ery  change  in  character,  as  it  becoinct  Ji.red, 
produces  a  corresponding  change  in  the  countenance.  Passion  not  only  cor- 
rodes the  heart,  but  also  disfigures  the  expression  o/  the  /ace. — T.  M.  Balliet. 


Ii6  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

to  everything — newspapers,  death-notices,  tra  la  la  la  la 
la  la  la  la.  That  tune  was  with  me  even  as  I  followed 
her  body  to  the  grave.  The  undertaker  said  to  me  : 
"You  seem  all  broken  up,  sir."  "  Oh!"  I  answered,  "  I 
am  in  despair  pair,  pair,  pair,  pair,  pair  !  !  !"  I  hate  it ! 
I  abominate  it  !  I — well,  as  long  as  I  can't  get  rid  of 
it,  I  shall  use  it  to  express  my  grief.     \^Sings^ 

I  have  just  lost  my  poor  auntie, 
I  have  just  laid  her  in  the  ground, 

A  small  income  she  has  left  me, 

Therefore  to  mourn  her  I  am  bound. 

She  was  ever  a  good,  kind  woman, 

And  her  loss  is  to  me  severe. 
For  I  was  her  favorite  nephew. 

So  I  hasten  to  drop  a  tear.     Tra  la  la. 

Well,  all  was  over  at  last.  I  took  the  train  back  to 
New  York.  My  head  was  ready  to  burst,  burst,  burst. 
I  got  out  at  the  Grand  Cen-cen-cen-tral  Depot,  pot.  I 
hurried  through  like  a  mad,  mad,  mad  man,  knocked 
down  everybody,  took  the  first  street  in  front  of  me, 
then, the  first  one  to  the  left,  the  next  one  to  right,  right, 
right,  another  one  to  the  left,  brought  up  at  the  East 
River,  gazed  at  the  water,  ter,  ter,  ten  Ah  !  never  to 
sing  that  any  more  !  To  die  !  I  threw  myself  into 
the  river  and  was  drowned  gl  gl  gl  gl  gl.  \Sighs  with 
satisfaction?^ 

When  I  came  to,  1  was  in  the  station-house.  My 
clothes  were  drying  before  the  fire,  and  that  cursed  tune 
was  still  throbbing  through  my  brain.  Tra  la  la  la  la  la 
la  la  la,  etc.     ^Exit  in  despair,  humming  the  tune.l 

Sound  is  the  reflection  of  the  divine  image.  In  sound  there  are  three  reflex 
images:  the  reflex  of  life.,  the  reflex  of  the  intellect.,  the  reflex  of  love. — 
Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION    BOOK.  n; 

AUCTIONING    OFF  THE  BABY. 


^^yilAT  am  I  offered  for  Baby? 

Dainty,  dimpled  and  sweet 
From  the  curls  above  his  forehead 

To  the  beautiful  rosy  feet; 
From  the  tips  of  the  wee  pink  fingers 
To  the  light  of  the  clear  brown  eye, 
What  am  I  offered  for  Bal-y?' 

Who'll  buy?  who'll  buy?  who'll  buy 

What  am  I  offered  for  Baby  ? 

"  A  shopful  of  sweets  ?"     Ah,  no! 
That's  too  much  beneath  his  value 

Who  is  sweetest  of  all  below! 
The  naughty,  beautiful  darling! 

One  kiss  from  his  rosy  mouth 
Is  better  than  all  the  dainties 

Of  East,  or  West,  or  South! 

What  am  I  offered  for  Baby? 

"  A  pile  of  gold?"     Ah,  dear, 
Your  gold  is  too  hard  and  heavy 

To  purchase  my  brightness  liere. 
Would  the  treasures  of  all  the  mountains, 

Far  in  the  wonderful  lands, 
Be  worth  the  clinging  and  clasping 

Of  these  dear  little  peach-bloom  hands? 

So,  what  am  I  offered  for  Baby? 

"A  rope  of  diamonds?"     Nay, 
If  your  brilliants  were  larger  and  brighter 

Than  stars  in  the  Milky  Way, 


A  rticulatc  language  is  Wflok  because  it  is  successife.     It  must  be  enunciated 
filirase^  by  phrase:  by  iMnt^^  Syllables^  letters,  consonants,  and  Z'Oivels. — Del- 

AUMllSNE. 


Ii8         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Would   they  ever  be  half  so  precious 
As  the  light  of  those  lustrous  eyes, 

Still  full  of  the  heavenly  glory 

They  brought  from  beyond  the  skies? 

Then,  what  am  I  offered  for  Baby? 

"  A  heart  full  of  love  and  a  kiss?" 
Well,  if  anything  ever  could  tempt  me, 

'Tvvould  be  such  an  offer  as  this! 
But  how  can  I  know  if  your  loving 

Is  tender,  and  true,  and  divine 
Enough  to  repay  what  I'm  giving 

In  selling  this  sweetheart  of  mine? 

So  we  will  not  sell  the  Baby! 

Your  gold  and  gems  and  stuff, 
Were  they  ever  so  rare  and  precious, 

Would  never  be  half  enough! 
For  what  would  we  care,  my  dearies, 

What  glory  the  world  put  on 
If  our  beautiful  darling  were — going; 

If  our  beautiful  darling  were — gone! 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  BEGGARS. 


Helen  W.  Ludlow. 


'T^HE  small  waves  came  frolicking  in  from  the  sea, 

Leaping  the  rocks  where  the  big  breakers  roar; 
Snowy  crests  tossing,  so  proud  to  be  free, 
Racing  and  chasing  in  baby-like  glee 

Up  the  sand  slope  to  the  beach  cabin  door. 

Throned  on  the  post  of  tlie  sea-looking  gate, 
Safe  in  the  fold  of  my  sheltering  arm, 


Breathing  is  a  threefold  act:    inspiration,  suspension,  expiration. — Del- 
saute. 


DELSARTE  RECUSATION  BOOK.  119 

Sat  three-year  old  Dick,  like  a  king  in  his  state, 
Little  feet  drumming  at  rapturous  rate — 

Small  King  Canute,  do  the  waves  own  thy  charm  ? 

Do  I  slander  the  soul  of  my  small  human  boy? 

"  Look  out,  then,  my  Dick,  over  ocean's  blue  floor. 
And  tell  me  what  fancies  those  deep  thoughts  employ. 
Ila!   Dick,  see  them  come!     Do  you  join  in  the  joy 

Of  the  little  white  horses  all  racing  for  shore?" 

The  tiny,  uplifted  arm  paused  in  the  air, 

The   blue   eyes    grew   thoughtful,   the   breeze-tousled 
head 
Shook  sunbeams  around,  and  tlie  sweet  little  pair 
Of  coral  lips,  trembling  with  utterance  rare, 

"  Doze  isn't  white  horses,"  he  earnestly  said. 

"What,  not  little  horses,  Dick?     See  how  they  run, 
All  their  curly  white  manes  floating  back  on  the  sea, 

Dashing  the  drops  up  to  shine  in  the  sun. 

Racing  and  chasing — what  glorious  fun!" 

"  No,  no;  doze  is  'ittle  white  beggars,"  said  he. 

"'Ittle  white  beggars,"  he  murmured  again. 

"Oh,  little  white  breakers,  you  mean,  I  suppose." 
'■'■Not  'ittle  white  b'akers  " — suggestion  was  vain, 
My  wisdom  rejected  with  baby  disdain  — 

"  'Ittle  white  beggars  dey  is;   I  knows." 

"  Little  white  beggars — well,  that's  an  idea  ! 

Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  so  we'll  all  understand. 
What  these  little  white  beggars  come  begging  for  here  ?" 
And  the  soft  baby  lips  whispered,  close  to  my  ear, 

"  Dey  begs  for  de  wocks,  an'  de  sea-weed,  an'  sand." 
^ ^ 

Gesture  is  magtittiCy  speech   is  not  so.      Through  gesture  tve  subitue  the  most 
ferocious  animals . — Delai'.mosnk. 


i20        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

GRANDFATHER  WATTS'S  PRI- 
VATE FOURTH. 

H.    C.    BUNNER. 


r^  RANDFATHER  WATTS  used  to  tells  us  boys 

^-^     That  a  Fourth  wan't  a  Fourth  without  any  noise, 

He  would  say,  with  a  thump  of  his  hickory  stick, 

That  it  made  an  American  right  down  sick, 

To  see  his  sons  on  th£  nation's  day 

Sit  round  in  a  sort  of  a  listless  way, 

With  no  oration  and  no  trained  band. 

No  firework  show  and  no  root  beer  stand. 

While  his  grandsons,  before  they  were  out  of  bibs, 

Were  ashamed — great  Scot! — to  fire  off  squibs. 

And  so  each  Independence  morn 
Grandfather  Watts  took  his  powder-horn 
And  the  flint-lock  shotgun  his  father  had 
When  he  fought  under  Schuyler,  a  country  lad. 
And  Grandfather  Watts  would  start  and  tramp 
Ten  miles  to  the  woods  at  Beaver  camp; 
For  Grandfather  Watts  used  to  say — and  scowl — 
That  a  decent  chipmunk,  or  woodchuck,  or  owl 
Was  better  company,  friendly  or  shy, 
Than  folks  who  didn't  keep  Fourth  of  July; 
And  so  he  would  pull  his  hat  down  on  his  brow, 
And  march  for  the  woods  sou'east  by  sou'. 

But  once — ah!  long,  long  years  ago; 
For  grandfather's  gone  where  good  men  go — 
One  hot,  hot  Fourth,  by  ways  of  our  own, 
Such  short  cuts  as  boys  have  always  known. 
We  hurried  and  followed  the  dear  old  man 


Every  impression^  to  become  a  sensation,  must  first  be  perceived  by  the  in- 
telligence; and  thus  we  may  say  of  the  sensation  that  it  is  a  definite  impres- 
sion.— Delsarte. 


"The  flag  your  ancestors  and  mine  fought  and  died  for 
a  hundred  years  ago." 


FAUST, 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  121 

Beyond  where  the  wilderness  began, 

To  the  deep  black  woods  at  the  foot  of  the  dump, 

And  there  was  a  clearing  and  a  stump — 

A  stump  in  the  heart  of  a  great,  wide  wood; 
And  there  on  that  stump  our  grandfather  stood, 
Talking  and  shouting  out  there  in  the  sun, 
And  firing  that  funny  old  flint-lock  gun 
Once  in  a  minute,  his  head  all  bare. 
Having  his  Fourth  of  July  out  there — 
The  Fourth  of  July  he  used  to  know 
Back  in  eighteen  and  twenty,  or  so. 

First,  with  his  face  to  the  heaven's  blue, 
He  read  the  "  Declaration"  through; 
And  then,  with  gestures  to  left  and  right, 
He  made  an  oration  erudite. 
Full  of  words  six  syllables  long; 
And  then  our  grandfather  broke  into  song! 
And,  scaring  the  squirrels  in  the  trees, 
Gave  "  Hail,  Columbia!"  to  the  breeze. 

And  I  tell  you  the  old  man  never  heard 
When  we  joined  in  the  chorus,  word  for  word! 
But  he  sang  out  strong  in  the  bright  blue  sky. 
And  if  voices  joined  in  his  Fourth  of  July, 
He  heard  them  as  echoes  from  days  gone  by. 

And  when  he  had  done,  we  all  slipped  back 
As  still  as  we  came,  on  our  twisting  track. 
While  words  more  clear  than  the  flint-lock  shots 
Rang  in  our  ears.     And  Grandfathei"  Watts? 
He  shouldered  the  gun  his  father  bore 
And  marched  off  home,  nor'west  by  nor'. 


The  plastic  art  allies  itseiy particularly  to  the  physical  coHstitution,  but  the 
\  physique  cannot  be  perfectly  beautiful  unless  it  manifests  intellectual  and 
moral  faculties. — Aknai'd. 


122  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

A  MODERN  VERSION  OF  THE 
MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Joseph    Barber. 


T  N  the  city  of  Venice,  blank-blank  Anno  Domini, 

Lived  one   Signor  Antonio,   who  seemed,  to   the 
common  eye. 
As  much  richer  than  any  who  there  turned  a  penny. 
As  the  richest  plum-pudding  is  richer  than  hominy. 
He  had  made  piles  of  rocks  by  shrewd  corners  in  stocks; 
Had  "collateral"  no  end  in  his  Herring's  strong  box; 
Owned  of  steamers  whole  lines,  several  Idaho  mines, 
And  had  ne'er  known  financial  disaster; 
In  short,  was  a  man  of  pith,  pluck,  and  claii^ 
In  whom  nature  had  blent,  on  the  composite  plan, 
The  vim  of  the  well-known  Cornelius  Van, 
With  the  prudence  of  William  B.  Astor. 

To  him  came  one  day,  in  a  terrible  way, 

Bassanio,  his  friend,  who'd  been  cleaned  out  in  play. 

And  says  he:  "  Won't  you  loan  me  three  thousand,  now 

say  ? 
It's  all  right;  I've  resolved  my  addresses  to  pay 
To  that  Belmont  girl,  Portia,  the  heiress. 
Her  affections  I'll  win — Tony,  tip  us  your  fin; 
My  hand  on't,  I'll  cancel  the  debt  with  her  tin. 
When  together,  her  brown  granite  palace  within. 
We  set  up  our  Penates  and  Lares." 

"Not  a  word  more,  dear  Bass,"  said  Antonio;  "the  lass 
You  shall  marry  if  my  help  can  bring  it  to  pass; 
But  I'm  short  of  the  ready,  just  now,  by  the  mass! 


speech  is  an  act  posterior  to  will,  itself  posterior  to  love:  this  again  posterior 
to  judgment,  posterior  in  its  turn  to  memory,  ivhichy  finally,  is  posterior  to 
the  impression. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  KEC1TA2I0N  BOOK.  123 

Having  largely  invested  in  cotton. 

Never  mind  about  that,  though,  my  paper's  first-class 

And  the  cash  can  be  easily  gotten." 

The  friends  then  went  forth  and  found  Shylock,  a  Jew, 
Accustomed  good  bills  and  good  Christians  to  "do," 
To  whom  said  Antonio:  "  Here,  Shy,  you  Yahoo, 
Advance  nie  three  thousand  for  three  months,  and  you 
May  prescribe  your  own  terms  as  a  lender." 
Quoth  the  Hebrew:*  ''I  will;  here's  a  quill;  draw  a  bill. 
And  in  lieu  of  all  interest  (I  won't  take  a  mill. 
Though   you've  oft  called  me  usurer,  and  treated   me 

ill) 
Say  a  pound  of  your  flesh — this  is  only  a  joke — 
Shall  be  mine,  should  the  contract  on  your  part  be  broke 
Ere  your  ninety-day  note  I  surrender." 

The  queer  bargain  was  made,  the  three  thousand  was 

paid, 
And  Bassanio,  with  young  Gratiano,  his  aide. 
Went  to  Belmont  to  woo  the  before-mentioned  maid. 
(Mind,    by    Belmont    I    don't    mean    that    blandest    of 

bankers, 
Who  owns  lots  of  thoroughbreds,  regular  spankers, 
But  a  home  near  Lake  Como,  whereat  that  young  ho/fio, 
Bassanio,  expected  to  play  major-domo.) 

Arrived  there,  the  guest  to  make  merry  was  pressed. 
For  Portia  of  all  her  beaux  liked  him  the  best; 
And  admitted  if  she  could  but  have  her  behest, 
No  power  under  heaven  should  sunder  'em. 

*  Here  is  offered  an  opportunity  to  insert  Shylock's  reply  from  the 
original. 


A  rt  is  only  valuable  as  it  expresses  goodness  anil  great  ness  in  the  soul.     Imi- 
tation may  imitate  the  expression ,  but  it  can  alwaysbe  detected  as  imitation, 
and  resembles  truth  as  nearly  as  the  cloud  on  a  painted  canvas  is  like  one  on 
heaven''s  canopy. — Gi^nevikve  Stei;bins. 
1 4« 


124        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOR. 

But,  alas!   her  fair  self  and,  still  worse,  all  her  pelf 

Had  been  willed  by  her  father,  cranky  old  elf, 

To  the  man  who  should  choose,  from   three  jars  on  a 

shelf. 
The  reply  to  a  certain  conundrum. 

I'm  most  happy  to  state  'twas  Bassanio's  fate 

To  guess  it;  and  Portia,  declining  to  wait, 

That  night  the  young  gentleman  married. 

Also,  "  same  time  and  place,"  fair  Nerissa,  her  maid, 

Espoused  Gratiano,  Bassanio's  aide; 

But  not  long  with  their  dear  ones  they  tarried. 

O'er  the  wires  came  a  flash,  their  enjoyment  to  dasli, 

To  this  purport  :  "  Antonio  all  gone  to  smash; 

Can't  take  up  that  note  ;  not  a  dollar  in  cash. 

Jew  angry  ;  protests  that  A.'s  bosom  he'll  gash, 

Come  quick,  or  there'll  be  a  most  awful  squabash. 

All  Antonio's  '  specs'  have  miscarried." 

I  ought  to  have  mentioned  before,  by  the  way, 

That  the  Jew's  only  daughter,  a  frolicsome  fay, 

Had  eloped  with  a  friend  of  Bassanio's,  one  day, 

Taking  with  her  large  sums  from  his  cash-box. 

Which  they  say  seemed  almost  to  madness  to  goad  him. 

By  daughter  and  ducats  thus  given  the  slip, 

The  old  anti-Christian,  miserly  rip. 

Was  delighted  Antonio  to  catch  on  the  hip. 

And  feed  fat  the  old  grudge  that  he  owed  him. 

When  Bassanio's  bride  of  the  telegram  heard. 
She  smiled  a  sad  smile,  and  said,  "  Bassy,  my  bird, 
Though  this  failure  has  inopportunely  occurred, 
You  must  go  to  your  bankrupt  friend's  succor. 
J. ^ 


Tivte  does  not  preserve  what  it  has  cost  us  no  time  to  create.— Dei.Saktk. 
4. 


DELSARTE  RECIT/ITION  BOOK.  125 

Take  six  thousand — take  more,  take  the  sum  ten  times 

o'er — 
What  is  money  to  me  wlien  the  man  I  adore 
Has  a  friend  in  this  horrible  pucker  !" 
Her  beloved  faltered  "Yes,"  gave  his  darling  a  kiss, 
Gratiano  did  likewise  to  pretty  Neriss, 
And  the  twain — slightly  under  the  weather 
At  the  thought  of  postponing  their  honeymoon's  bliss — 
Took  the  first  train  for  Venice  together. 

They  had  scarce  turned  their  backs,  when  said  Portia  : 
"  Suppose, 

Dear  Nerissa,  we  follow  them,  under  the  rose, 

I  disguised  as  a  lawyer,  and  you  in  the  clothes  befitting 
an  amanuensis. 

'Twas  arranged,  tout  Je  suite.  In  black  costumes  com- 
plete, 

Procured  ready-made,  that  reached  down  to  their  feet, 

They  started  next  day  their  dear  husbands  to  cheat — 

Portia  paying,  of  course,  all  expenses. 

It  was  high  noon  in  Venice,  the  court  was  assembled  ; 

The  Jew  was  malignant,  the  prisoner  trembled, 

And  Bassanio  was  pleading,  with  eyes  red  and  watery. 

To  save  his  friend's  breast  from  "  the  actual  cautery," 

When,  during  a  pause,  a  young  doctor  of  laws. 

Sent  from  Padua  to  try  "  the  great  pound-of-flesh  cause," 

Appeared  on  the  scene  and  proceeded  to  charge 

(Citing  cases  in  point  and  the  statutes  at  large) 

That  the  Hebrew,  though  bloodthirsty,  vile,  and  reputed 

A  foul,  heathenish  dog,  that  deserved  to  be  booted — 

Had  "a  clear  case  in  law,"  and  could  not  be  nonsuited. 

J. f 


//  is  through  opposition  that  the  smile  expresses  moral  sadness. — Delaumosne. 


126         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

The  Jew  whetted  his  blade:  "  Lo!  a  Daniel,"  he  said; 

"  Your  laws  to  the  four  winds  he  pitches. 

Antonio  prepare,  your  old  torso  lay  bare, 

For  my  hand  to  dig  into  it  itches." 

But  "tarry  a  little,"  the  doctor  replied; 

"Take  your  quota  of  flesh,  but  of  life's  crimson  tide, 

If  thou  spillest  one  drop,  all  thy  goods  to  the  state 

Are  by  law — and  thou  lovest  the  law — confiscate. 

But  take  notice,  I  pray  thee,  thou  cannibal  hound, 

Cut,  avoirdupois,  to  a  hair's  breadth,  a  pound. 

A  mistake  of  one  scruple,  unscrupulous  Jew 

(Ah!  thy  visage  may  well  turn  green,  yellow,  and  blue), 

Will  not  merely  thy  property  place  at  our  beck, 

But  a  proper  tie  put  round  that  infamous  neck," 

"  Is  that  so?"    whimpered  Shylock,  his   lips   white  with 

foam, 
"Please    to    pay  the    note    thrice,  then;    I  want   to   go 

home." 
But  "  No,  stop!"  cried  the  doctor;  "  the  law  hath  a  hold, 
Even  now,  on  this  usurer's  ill-gotten  gold. 
Here's  an  act  that  declares  if  an  alien  attempt 
A  citizen's  life,  all  his  goods— naught  exempt — 
Shall  be  seized  on  at  once  for  the  state's  '  privy  coffer; ' 
So  this  fellow,  at  best,  is  a  ducatless  loafer. 
And  his  life  even  now  lies  within  the  duke's  mercv, 
Who  may  grant  it,  perhaps— or,  perhaps,  vice  versy." 

The  upshot  of  all  was  that  Shylock  agreed 

To    turn  Christian— the    scamp— if    from    punishment 

freed; 
And  the  court,  out  of  pity,  condemned  him  to  deed 

^ — 


i 


Expiration  is  an  element  of  trust,  expansion,  confidence,  and  tenderness 
I/the  expression  contain  both  pain  and  love,  the  inspiration  and  the  e  vfiiration 
•un/.l  both  be  noisy. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  127 

All  his  goods  to  his  runaway  daughter! 

Then  the  doctor  and  clerk,  with  a  dexterous  jerk, 

Doffed  the  toggery  they'd  worn  for  professional  work, 

And  each  wife,  with  a  saucy,  self-satisfied  smirk, 

Sought  the  arms  that  delightfully  caught  her. 

Something  more  might  I  say,  if  I  followed  the  play' 

But  the  finishing  scene  is  rather  too  "gay;" 

And  as  double  en  tend  res  are  not  in  my  way, 

I  will  here,  with  permission,  the  green  curtain  draw 

On  this  drama  of  love,  lucre,  logic,  and  law. 

Moral. 
With  regard  to  the  moral,  on  Shylock  it  centres, 
To  whom  "  lust  of  flesh  "  brought  the  worst  of  adven- 
tures; 
It  is  this — truer  proverb  you  ne'er  set  your  eyes  on — 
"What  is  one  person's  meat,  is  another  one's  poison." 


PIANO-MUSIC. 


"C^IRST  a  soft  and  gentle  tinkle. 

Gentle  as  the  rain-drop's  sprinkle, 

Then  a  stop. 

Fingers  drop. 
Now  begins  a  merry  trill, 
Like  a  cricket  in  a  mill; 
Now  a  short,  uneas}'  motion. 
Like  a  ripple  on  the  ocean. 
See  the  fingers  dance  about, 
Hear  the  notes  come  tripping  out; 
How  they  mingle  in  llie  tingle 

//  is  necessary  only  that  there  should  exist  a  degree  o/ indi-'iduality,  some- 
thing no~'e/,  a  distinguishing  tone,  and  an  artistic  physiognomy  peculiarly 
one's  own.     Servile  imitations,  plagiarism,  stupid  adaptations,  put  to  death 

all  art  and  all  poetry .  — \v.ti\\v>. 


128         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Of  the  everlasting  jingle, 

Like  to  hailstones  on  a  shingle, 

Or  the  ding-dong,  dangle-dingle 

Of  a  sheep-bell  !     Double,  single, 

Now  they  come  in  wilder  gushes, 

Up  and  down  the  player  rushes. 

Quick  as  squirrels,  sweet  as  thrushes. 

Now  the  keys  begin  to  clatter 

Like  the  music  of  a  platter 

When  the  maid  is  stirring  batter. 

O'er  the  music  comes  a  change, 

Every  tone  is  wild  and  strange; 

Listen  to  the  lofty  tumbling. 

Hear  the  mumbling,  fumbling,  jumbling, 

Like  the  rumbling  and  the  grumbling 

Of  the  thunder  from  its  slumbering 

Just  awaking.     Now  it's  taking 

To  the  quaking,  like  a  fever-and-ague  shaking; 

Heads  are  aching,  something's  breaking — 

Goodness  gracious!'  it  is  wondrous. 

Rolling  round,  above,  and  under  us, 

Like  old  Vulcan's  stroke  so  thunderous. 

Now  'tis  louder,  but  the  powder 

Will  be  all  exploded  soon; 

For  the  only  way  to  do. 

When  the  music's  nearly  through, 

Is  to  muster  all  your  muscle  for  a  bang. 

Striking  twenty  notes  together  with  a  clang: 

Hit  the  treble  with  a  twang. 

Give  the  bass  an  awful  whang, 

And  close  tlie  whole  performance 

"With  a  slam — bang— whang  ! 


Inspiration  should  aliuays  be  followed  by  a  suspensive  silence;  otherwise  ike 
lungs,  agitated  by  the  act  o/  inspiration,  perform  the  expiration  badly. — Df.i- 

SAKTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


129 


THE  COBRA. 


Miller  Hageman. 


^f^ 


ROUGHED  about  each  other  closely, 
measuring  each  glance  mo- 
rosely, 
Bent  a  group  of  midnight  gam- 
blers   over   cup    and    card 
and  cheat; 
When,    with    countenance    ap- 
palling, to  his  startled  com- 
rades calling, 
^"^5^^^^^^       ^"^  °^  them  with  ghostly  whis- 
-i^-'^^T  pel-   gasped    from    out    his 

winding-sheet: 
"  Hush,  for  God's   sake,  hush,  I   feel  a  cobra  crawling 
round  my  feet!" 

And  sank  backward  in  his  seat. 

In  his  lifted  hand  clutched  tightly,  as  the  burning  lamp 

shone  brightly, 
Gleamed   the  winning  card,  whose  bloodspots  seemed 

some  horror  to  portray; 
But  as  that  dread  weight   upon  him   told  him   death's 

cold  hand  was  on  him, 
As  the  lion    at  the   hunter  stares   with    paw   upon   the 

prey. 
So  he  stared  in  palsied  terror  at  that  card  he  dared  not 

play, 

While  that  cobra  round  him  Jay. 


The  classic  eras  0/ study  0/ ^generalities  and  o/classesha-e patsed.  The  ro- 
mantic time  has  g;one  by.  Our  modern  age  has  come  ivith  its  study  0/  the 
individual  in  expression.  The  so-called  /i)ie  arts  ha7'e  had  their  iiay,  and 
the  individual  man  already  demands  that  the  arts  0/  mankind  shall  he  ob- 
served noxv.  "  The  statue  has  lecomca  li-:'ing  man." — Fkanklin  H.  Sargent.  I 
HH 4* 


I30         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


Back  each  chill  spectator  started  as  from  ghost  of  one 

departed, 
While  below  that  haunted  table  every  eye  was  quickly 

cast; 
Where,  beneath  the  cover  hiding,  round  the  gambler's 

ankles  gliding. 


In  the  dark  a  deadly  cobra  was  distinctly  seen  at  last. 
That  had  coiled  itself  about  him  till  at  length  his  feet 
were  fast, 

Till  each  comrade  stood  aghast. 

One  by  one   they  drew  back   gently  from    the  wretch, 
whose  eye  intently 


Three  characteristics  may  be  attributed  to  respiration:  vocal,  logical,  pa- 
thetic, or  passional. — Dels  arte. 


-*. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION    BOOK.  131 

I     Followed  them  iis  they  receded  through  the  shadows  of 
the  room; 
For  each  face  too   plainly  told  him  that  no  hand  should 
I  e'er  unfold  him 

From   those   cold   and    clammy   cerements,  those    chill 

cerements  of  the  tomb. 
While,  from  underneath  the  table,  craning  up  from  out 

>the  gloom. 
Shone  a  deadly  eye  of  doom. 

Slowly   round    the  gambler   toiling,   sinuously   coiling, 

coiling. 
Crept  the  cobra,  higher,  higher,  up  the  limbs,  the  loins, 

the  breast; 
Slowly   round    his    body   bending,   all   its   angry   hood 

distending 
At  the  vulgar  jewels   flaming  on  the  gambler's  velvet 

vest, 
Upward  on  its  awful  errand  by  its  victim  little  guessed, 
Upward  still  that  cobra  pressed. 

Tightly  round  that  arm  entwining  craned   that  lidless 
eyeball,  shining 

On   the   red  card    flashing  o'er   it   fiercely   as  a  blood- 
stained brand; 

When,  without  an   instant's  warning,  suddenly,  as  if  in 
scorning 

For  that  despicable,  damning  deed  it  seemed  to  under- 
stand, 

See!  its  runs  its  flickering  tongue  out,  hisses,  gleets  its 
poisoned  gland 

Throuoh  the  gambler's  bleeding  hand. 


To  think  0/  the  Delsartf  tiiethod  as  u  system  of  gesture  only,  is  to  think  ttar- 

yowly  and  restrictively.     Exf-ressioii  is  the  interior  mind  or  soul  niani/esting 

itself  through  the  exterior  sulstitnce  or  body.      The  Delsnrtt  fhilosofihy,  then, 

is  iiti  analysis  of  the  psychic  element  of  man  as  made  from  the  standpoint  of 

I  manifestation^— '^Xof.v.s  Tki'k  Brown. 

+- + 


132         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"Fiend!"    he   cried,  "whence   art   thou,   whither?   who 

this  night  hath  sent  thee  hither, 
Thou  who   standest   here   before   me  wrapt  in   cowl  of 

Capuchin; 
Thou  who  thus  upon  me  stealing,  round  me  this  dread 

coil  art  reeling? 
Art  thou  some  avenging  spirit,  some  dire  bodiment  of 

sin. 
Through  whom  Satan  thus  hath  darkly  to  my  lost  soul 

entered  in. 

This  last  game  of  life  to  win? 

"Art   thou,  gliding  from   the   garden,  one  whom  God 
refused  to  pardon. 

One  whose  poison  through  my  pulses  naught  can  fol- 
low or  o'ertake; 

One  whose  dark  temptations  found  me,  grew  up  stealth- 
ily around  me, 

Till  at  last  bad   habits  bound   me  with  these  chains  I 
cannot  break?" 

Then,  as  mind  and    memory   wandered,  sadly  to  that 
deadly  snake. 

Still  the  dying  gambler  spake. 

"  'Tis  a  dream;  the  past  comes  o'er  me.    Lo,  there  rises 

one  before  me 
From  whose  waving  hand  I  wandered  when  life's  day 

was  in  its  dawn; 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  city,  cold   alike  to  pain 

and  pity. 
Smooth   knaves   whispered,  bright  jades  beckofied,  till 

tlieir  toils  were  round  me  drawn, 
4. 

Inspiration    is  an   element   of  dissimulation,  concentration,  fain. — Dei.- 

SARTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  133 

Till   I   drank,  staked,   won,  lost,  borrowed,  lost   again, 
stole,  put  to  pawn 

All  I  had  till  all  was  gone. 

"  'Tis  her  arm  around  me  wreathing,  'tis — what  means 

this  hissing  breathing? 
Comrades,  help!  the    room    swims   around    me;  quick! 

my  pulses  reel  and  nod; 
Quick!  the  warning  grows;  I'm  dying!     Oh,  that  I  this 

night  were  lying 
In   those   empty  arms   that  loved   me,  on   that   broken 

heart  I  trod 
With   the  iron  heel  of  scorning  down  into  the  daisied 

sod, 

O  my  mother!     O  my  God  !" 

Dimly  then  above  the  table  ebbed   the  lamp,  no  longer 
able 

On  that  face  to  smile  serenely  as  the  poison  played  its 
part; 

While,  about  the  gambler  glancing,  like  dissolving  col- 
ors dancing. 

On  the  oscillating  darkness  with  kaleidoscopic  art, 

Brightly  flashed  that  lidless  eyeball,  javelling  its  drink- 
ing dart. 

Through  his  conscience-stricken  heart. 

"Fiend!"  he  cried,  as   it  grew   stronger,"!   can   stand 

that  look  no  longer. 
By  this  pain  that  works  within  me,  by  this  awful  death 

so  nigh, 
Take  that  lidless  eyeball  off  me;  take  it  off,  I  curse  thee, 

scoff  thee! 
J. _ .. 

T       The  susf>tnston  or  prolongation  o/  a  tiioveiiitnt  ts  one  of  t/if  grent  sources  o/ 

\  effect      It  is  in   suspension   that  force  anil  interest  consist.     A  good  thing  is 

ivorth  Ire i It g  kept  in  sight  long  enough   to  allo'M  an  enjoyment  of  the  vie^v. — 

I    Dl-.LAHMOSNE. 

4. . 


134  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Now   I   know  thee!   thou  art   conscience;  I  will  never, 

never  die 
With   the  eye  of  conscience  on  me  !"   Then  a  loud  hiss 

made  reply: 

"Conscience  never  shuts  its  eye." 

Black  and  swollen   and   distorted   grew   his  face,  while 
round  him  sported 

The  fierce  snake  in  gleaming  fury,  hissing  at  his  fright- 
ful pain; 

Till,  with  one  wild  shriek,  he  seized  it,  in  his  stiffening 
death-grip  squeezed  it 

Till   its  ghastly  eye  protruded,  till  it   swelled  in  every 
vein; 

Bent  it,  shook  it,  flung  it  from  him  horribly,  but  all  in 
vain; 

Still  that  eye  turned  back  again. 

Maddened  by  the  deadly  ichor,  as  the  poison  quick  and 
quicker 

Boiled  and  bubbled  through  his  pulses,  tight  and  tight- 
er grew  his  hold; 

Till,  for  breath  the  cobra  gasping,  coil  on   coil  around 
him  clasping, 

With  its  gnarled  and  knotted  muscles  twisting  in  each 
writhing  fold. 

See  !  it  stings  itself,  it  blackens,  till  from  out  his  grasp, 
behold! 

Red,  that  bloodshot  eyeball  rolled  I 

Slowly  died  the  light  around    him;  mute  and  motion- 
less they  found  him. 
When  the  deadly  fray  was  over,  sitting  bolt  within  his 

chair; 
J, ^ — ^ ^ 4. 

The  articulation  0/ the  syllables  la,  iito,  po,  is  a  icseful  exercise  in  habituat- 
ing one  to  the  medium  voice.  These  are  the  musical  consonants  fiar  excellence. 
They  give  charm  to,  and  develop  the  voice.  }(^e  can  repeat  these  tones  without 
fatiguing  the  vocal  chords,  since  they  .xre  produced  by  the  articulative  appa- 
ratus.—  Dklsarte. 
4, — — 4- 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  135 

With  the  snake  about  him  tangled,  in  his  stiffened  fin- 
gers strangled,. 
Each  upon  the  other  glowering  with  a  wild,  defiant  glare, 
Eyeball  upon  eyeball  shining  through  the  solemn  dark- 
ness there. 

Conscience  fixed  upon  Despair  ! 

And  with   none,  alas!  to  aid   him,  there    they  smoothed 

his  lids  and  laid  him 
With  the  cobra  in   his  death-clutch  down  beneath  the 

haunted  heap; 
Where,  upon  his  dreamless  pillow,  turned  for  him  where 

drooped  the  willow. 
In  the  grave  beyond  the  billow,  that  lone  grave  so  dark, 

so  deep, 
In  that  grave  that  lidless  ej'eball  still  its  solemn  watch 

doth  keep, 

Conscience  staring  in  its  sleep. 


Fl^l'l'l  i"?  its  ileep^  is  death  r,.-,>5, 


^Y'r*''  ~*~~'l  Tu'-i^ 


The  expression   of  nature  by  gesture, /ace,  or  Toice  will  not  come  to  the  ar- 
tist by  inspiration   nor   by  reflection,  esfaiaHy   in   extreme  situations.  —  Ar 

NAUD. 


136  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

FAITH  AND  WORKS. 


William  H.  Montgomery. 


T    ITTLE  Mollie  and  Faith,  in  the  arbor  at  play, 

Were  making  a  marigold  crown, 
When  a  noise  on  the  lawn  made  the  little  ones  jump 
And  scatter  the  gold  flowers  down. 


And,  fast  toward  the  bower  of  blossoms  and  vines, 

Came  a  quadruped,  bristling  and  big. 
With  sharp-pointed  toes,  and  a  queer,  grunty  nose. 

In  short,  'twas  a  terrible  pig. 

"Oh,  mercy!"  screamed  Faith,"  where,  where  shall  we 
go? 

Oh,  mamma,  oh,  papa,  come  here! 
He's  going  to  tear  us  to  pieces,  I  know," 

And  she  jumped  up  and  down  in  her  fear. 

But  Mollie,  more  brave,  raised  the  old  crooked  gate, 
And  slammed  it  quite  hard  to  its  place  ; 

Then  Faith,  kneeling  down  on  the  moss-covered  ground, 
Toward  the  sky  turned  her  little  pale  face. 

"Now,  Mollie,  I'll  pray  to  our  Father  in  Heaven 

To  save  us  and  drive  him  away. 
.That's  the  very  best  thing  in  the  world  to  be  done. 

You  hold  the  gate  strong  while  I  pray  y 


When  two  limbs  /olloiu  the  sii»ie  direction,  they  cannot  be  simultaneous 
without  violating  the  laiv  of  of>position.  There/ore^  direct  movements  should 
be  successive,  opposite  movements  should  be  sitniittaneous. — Delsarte. 


ISIS. 


FORT  UNA. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  137 

Dear  mamma's  blue  eyes  twinkled  bright  through  her 
tears, 

When  the  marvelous  story  was  told 
Of  tlie  prayerful  escape  of  her  two  little  girls 

From  tiie  monster,  so  savage  and  bold. 


HOW  BURLINGTON  WAS  SAVED, 


C.  Mair. 


A    STORY  worth  telling  our  annals  afford, 

'Tis  the  wonderful  journey  of  Laura  Secord. 
Her  poor  crippled  husband  came  home  with  the  news 
That  Boerstler  was  nigh  !     "  Not  a  minute  to  lose, 
Not  an  instant,"  said  Laura,  "for  stoppage  or  pause — 
I  must  hurry  and  warn  our  brave  troops  at  Decaw's." 
"  What !  you  !"  said  her  husband,  "  to  famish  and  tire  !" 
"Yes,  I  !"  said  brave  Laura,  her  bosom  on  fire. 
"And  how  will  you  pass  the  gruff  sentry?"  said  he, 
"  Who  is  posted  so  near  us  ?" 

"  Just  wait  till  you  see; 
The  foe  is  approaching,  and  means  to  surprise 
Our  troops,  as  you  tell  me.     Oh,  husband,  tiiere  flies 
No  dove  with  a  message  so  needful  as  this — 
I'll  take  it,  I'll  bear  it.     Good-bye,  with  a  kiss." 
Then  a  biscuit  she  ate,  tucked  her.skirts  well  about. 
And  a  bucket  she  slung  on  each  arm,  and  went  out. 

'Twas  the  bright   blush   of   dawn   when   the  stars  melt 
away. 

Expression^  beside  the  description^/  the  object,  may  explain  the  subject  or 
interior  emotion,  and  is  then  not  imitative,  but  suggestive,  elliptic,  and  mys- 
tic.— Franklin  H.  SARCEiST. 


138        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Dissolved  like  a  dream  by  the  breath  of  the  day; 

But  Laura  had  eyes  for  her  duty  alone; 

She   marked   not   the   glow    and    the   gloom   that   were 

thrown. 
Behind  was  the  foe,  full  of  craft  and  of  guile  ; 
Before  her  a  long  day  of  travel  and  toil. 
"  No  time  this  for  gazing,"  said  Laura,  as  near 
To  the  sentry  she  drew. 

"  Halt!    You  cannot  pass  here." 
"  I  cannot  pass  here!     Why,  sirrah,  you  drowse, 
Are  you  blind?     Don't  you  see  I  am  off  to  my  cows?" 
"Well,  well,  you  can  go."     So  she  wended  her  way 
To  the  pasture's  lone  side,  where  the  farthest  cow  lay. 
Got   her  up,   then   knelt  down,   and,   with   pail   at   her 

knees. 
Made  her  budge,  inch  by  inch,  till  she  drew  by  degrees 
To  the  edge  of  the  forest.     "  I've  hoaxed,  on  my  word. 
Both  you  and  the  sentry,"  said  Laura  Secord. 

With  a  lingering  look  at  her  home,  then  away 
She  sped  through  the  wild  wood — a  wilderness  gra}^ 
Where  the  linden  had  space  for  its  fans  and  its  flowers, 
The  balsam  its  tents,  and  the  cedar  its  bowers; 
Where  the  lord  of  the  forest,  the  oak,  had  its  realm. 
The  ash  its  domain,  and  its  kingdom  the  elm. 

And  denser  and  deeper  tlie  solitude  grew. 

The  underwood  thickened,  and  drenched  her  with  dew. 

She  tripped  over  moss-covered  logs,  fell,  arose, 

Sped,  and  stumbled  again  by  the  hour,  till  her  clothes 

Every  agreeable  or  disagreeable  sight  makes  the  body  react  backward.  The 
degree  of  reaction  should  be  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  interest  caused  by 
the  sight  of  the  object. — Delsarte. 

i — 4. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK  139 

Were  rent  by  the  branches  and  thorns,  and  her  feet 
Grew  tender  and  way-worn  and  blistered  with  heat. 

She  stopped — it  was  noonday.     The  wilds  she  espied 
Seemed  solitudes  measureless.     "  Help  me!"  she  cried; 
Her  piteous  lips  parched  with  thirst,  and  her  eyes 
Strained  with  gazing.     The  sun  in  his  infinite  skies 
Looked  down  on  no  creature  more  hapless  than  she. 
One  moment  she  faltered.     Beware  !     What  is  this? 
The  coil  of  the  serpent  !  the  rattlesnake's  hiss! 
One  moment,  then  onward.     What  sounds  far  and  near? 
The  howl  of  the  wolf,  yet  she  turned  not  in  fear. 

She  toiled  to  the  highway,  then  over  the  hill. 
And  down  the  deep  valley,  and  past  the  old  mill. 
And  through  the  ne.xt  woods,  till,  at  sunset,  slie  came 
To  the  first  British  picket,  and  murmured  her  name; 
Thence,  guarded  by  Indians,  footsore  and  pale. 
She  was  led  to  Fitzgibbon,  and  told  him  her  tale. 

For  a  moment  her  reason  forsook  her;  she  raved, 

She  laughed,  and  she  cried — "They  are  saved,  they  are 

saved  !" 
Then  her  senses  returned,  and,   with   thanks   loud   and 

deep 
Sounding  sweetly  around  her,  she  sank  into  sleep. 
And  B(Tcrstler  came  up,  but  his  movements  were  known. 
His  force  was  surrounded,  his  scheme  was  o'erthrown 
By  a  woman's  devotion;  on  stone  be  it  engraved. 
The  foeman  was  beaten,  and  Burlington  saved. 


The  o/>/>osition  of  the  at^ents  is  the  harmony  of  gesture.  Harmony  Is  born 
0/ contrasts.  From  o/>/>osiiion,  equilibrium  is  born  in  turn.  Equilibrium  is 
the  great  laiu  of  gesture^  and  comiemns  parallelism. — Dei.ai'MOsnb. 


I40  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  PAGE. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


A     KNIGHT  of  gallant  deeds 
-^*-     And  a  young  page  at  his  side, 
From  the  holy  war  in  Palestine 

Did  slow  and  thoughtful  ride, 
As  each  were  a  palmer,  and  told  for  beads 

The  dews  of  the  eventide. 

"O  young  page,"  said   tlie  knight, 

"A  noble  page  art  thou! 
Thou  fearest  not  to  steep  in  blood 

The  curls  upon  thy  brow; 
And  once  in  the  tent,  and  twice  in  the  fight, 

Didst  ward  me  a  mortal  blow." 

"  O  brave  knight,"  said  the  page, 

"  Or  ere  we  hither  came, 
We  talked  in  tent,  we  talked  in  field. 

Of  the  bloody  battle  game; 
But  here,  below  this  greenwood  bough 

I  cannot  speak  the  same." 

"  Sir  page,  I  pray  your  grace! 

Certes,  I  meant  not  so 
To  cross  your  pastoral  mood,  sir  page. 

With  the  crook  of  the  battle-bow. 
But  a  knight  may  speak  of  a  lady's  face, 
I  ween,  in  any  mood  or  place, 

If  the  grasses  die  or  grow. 


Flame  contains  the  warmth  of  life  and  tlie  Ugiit  o/ the  tnind.  As  the  soul 
contains  and  unites  the  li/e  and  the  iniitd,  so  the  Jlame  luartns  and  shines.— 
Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  141 

"And  this,  I  meant  to  say, — 

My  lady's  face  shall  shine 
As  ladies'  faces  use,  to  greet 

My  page  from  Palestine: 
Or  speak  she  fair,  or  prank  she  gay, 

She  is  no  lady  of  mine. 

"  And  this  I  meant  to  fear, — 

Her  bower  may  suit  thee  ill! 
For,  sooth,  in  that  same  field  and  tent. 

Thy  talk  was  somewhat  still; 
And  fitter  thy  hand  for  thy  knightly  spear, 

Than  thy  tongue  for  my  lady's  will." 

Slowly  and  thankfully 

The  young  page  bowed  his  head; 
His  large  eyes  seemed  to  muse  a  smile. 

Until  he  blushed  instead; 
And  no  lady  in  her  bower,  pardie. 

Could  blush  more  sudden  red — 
"  Sir  knight,  thy  lady's  bower  to  me, 

Is  suited  well,"  he  said. 

"A  boon,  thou  noble  knight. 

If  ever  I  served  thee! 
Though  thou  art  a  knight  and  I  am  a  page, 

Now  grant  a  boon  to  me — 
And  tell  me,  sooth,  if  dark  or  bright. 
If  little  loved  or  loved  aright, 
Be  the  face  of  thy  la  lye." 

Gloomily  looked  the  knight: 
"  As  a  son  thou  hast  served  me: 


A  slight  change  of  thought  may  alter  the  expression  of  the /ace,  but  the  at- 
titude should  be  held  until  a  nc-M  impression  is  to  be  expressed. — Gknevievb 

Stebbins. 


142  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  would  to  none  I  had  granted  boon, 

Except  to  only  thee! 
For,  haply,  then  I  should  love  aright, 
For  then  I  should  know  if  dark  or  bright 

Were  the  face  of  my  ladye. 

"  Earl  Walter  was  a  brave  old  earl, 

He  was  my  father's  friend; 
And  while  I  rode  the  lists  at  court 

And  little  guessed  the  end. 
My  noble  father  in  his  shroud, 
Against  a  slanderer  lying  loud, 

He  rose  up  to  defend. 

"  I  would  my  hand  had  fought  that  fight 

And  justified  my  father! 
I  would  my  heart  had  caught  that  wound 

And  slept  beside  him  rather! 
I  think  it  were  a  better  thing 
Than  murthered  friend  and  marriage-ring 

Forced  on  my  life  together. 

"  Wail  shook  Earl  Walter's  house — 

His  true  wife  shed  no  tear — 
She  lay  upon  her  bed  as  mute 

As  the  earl  did  on  his  bier; 
Till — '  Ride,  ride  fast,'  she  said  at  last, 

'  And  bring  the  avenged  son  near! 
Ride  fast — ride  free,  as  a  dart  can  flee, 
For  white  of  blee  with  waiting  for  me 

Is  the  corse  of  the  next  chambere.' 


Pathetic  effects  are  nine  in  number,  the  principal  o/  ivhich  are  as  ^follows: 
(he  smothered  tone,  the  ragged  tone:  the  vibrant  tone:  the  veiled  tone:  the  Jlat 
or  compressed  ^ii«<?.— Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         143 

**  I  came — I  knelt  beside  her  bed — 

Her  calm  was  worse  than  strife: 
*  My  husband,  for  thy  father  dear, 
Gave  freely,  when  tliou  wert  not  here, 

His  own  and  eke  my  life. 
A  boon!     Of  that  sweet  child  we  make 
An  orphan  for  thy  father's  sake, 

Make  thou  for  our's  a  wife.' 

"  I  said:  'My  steed  neighs  in  the  court, 

My  bark  rocks  on  the  brine; 
And  the  warrior's  vow  I  am  under  now 

To  free  the  pilgrim's  shrine; 
But  fetch  the  ring  and  fetch  the  priest 

And  call  that  daughter  of  thine; 
And  rule  slie  wide  from  my  castle  on  Nyde 

While  I  am  in  Palestine.' 

"  In  the  dark  chambere,  if  the  bride  was  fair, 

Ye  wis,  I  could  not  see; 
But  the  steed   thrice  neighed,  and   the  priest  fast 
prayed 

And  wedded  fast  were  we. 
Her  mother  smiled  upon  her  bed. 
As  at  its  side  we  knelt  to  wed; 
And  the  bride  rose  from  her  knee 
And  kissed  the  smile  of  her  mother  dead, 

Or  ever  she  kissed  me. 

**  My  page,  my  page,  wljat  grieves  thee  so, 
That  the  tears  run  down  thy  face?" 
"  Alas,  like  mine  own  sister 
Was  thv  lady's  case! 


True  grace  in  adults  is  not  that  which  is  studied,  nor  that  ivhich  is  artisti- 
cally  copied  from   a   hadly-chosen  type.     Grace  is  horn  o/  itsei/y  the  natural 
I  fruit  0/  the  culture  of  the  tnind,  o/  elevated  thoughts  and  noble  sentiments. — 
Arnaud. 


144        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

But  she  laid  down  the  silks  she  wore 
And  followed  him  she  wed  before, 
Disguised  as  his  true  servitor, 
To  the  very  battle-place." 

And  wept  the  page,  but  laughed  the  knight, 

A  careless  laugh  laughed  he: 
"Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister, 

But  not  for  my  ladye! 
My  love,  so  please  you,  shall  requite 
No  woman,  whether  dark  or  bright, 

Unwomaned  if  she  be." 

The  page  stopped  weeping,  he  smiled  no  more, 

But  passionately  he  spake: 
*'  Oh,  womanly  she  prayed  in  tent, 

When  none  beside  did  wake! 
Oh,  womanly  she  paled  in  fight. 

For  one  beloved's  sake! 
And  her  little  hand  defiled  with  blood, 
Her  tender  tears  of  womanhood 

Most  woman-pure  did  make!" 

"  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister; 

Thou  tellest  well  her  tale! 
But  for  my  lady,  she  shall  pray 

r  the  kirk  of  Nydesdale. 
Not  dread  for  me  but  love  for  me 

Shall  make  my  lady  pale. 
No  casque  shall  hide  her  woman's  tear — 
It  shall  have  room  to  trickle  clear 

Behind  her  woman's  veil." 


The  chest  is  a  passive  agent:  it  should  furnish  nothing  but  the  breath.     The 
mouth  and  the  larynx  alone  are  entitled  to  act. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         145 

"  But  what  if  she  mistook  thy  mind 

And  followed  thee  to  strife; 
Then,  kneeling,  did  entreat  thy  love, 

As  Paynims  ask  for  life?" 
"  I  would  forgive,  and  evermore 
Would  love  her  as  my  servitor, 

But  little  as  my  wife. 

*'  Look  up — there  is  a  small  bright  cloud 

Alone  amid  the  skies! 
So  iiigl),  so  pure,  and  so  apart, 

A  woman's  honor  lies." 
The  page  looked  up — the  cloud  was  sheen — 
A  sadder  cloud  did  rush,  I  ween. 

Betwixt  it  and  his  eyes. 

Then  dimly  dropped  his  eyes  away 

From  welkin  unto  hill — 
Ha!  who  rides  there? — the  page  is  'ware, 

Though  the  cry  at  his  heart  is  still! 
And  the  page  seeth  all  and  the  knight  seeth  none 
Tiiough  banner  and  spear  do  fleck  the  sun. 

And  the  Saracens  ride  at  will. 

He  speaketh  calm,  he  speaketh  low: 

"  Ride  fast,  my  master,  ride. 
Or  ere  within  tlie  broadening  dark 

The  narrow  shadows  hide!" 
"Yea,  fast,  my  page;  I  will  do  so; 

And  keep  thou  at  my  side." 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,  ride  on  thy  way, 
Thy  faithful  page  precede! 


He  oily  is  a  great  orator  ivho  can  utter  reason  without  passion. — MoSBS 
True  Brown. 


146        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

For  I  must  loose  on  saddle  bow 
My  battle-casque  that  galls,  I  trow. 

The  shoulder  of  my  steed; 

Ere  night  I  shall  be  near  to  thee, 

Now  ride,  my  master,  ride!" 

Had  the  knight  looked  up  in  the  page's  face, 

I  ween  he  had  never  gone; 
Had  the  knight  looked  back  to  the  page's  geste, 

I  ween  he  had  turned  anon. 
For  dread  was  the  woe  in  the  face  so  young; 
And  wild  was  the  silent  geste  that  flung 
Casque,  sword,  to  earth,  as  the  boy  downsprung, 

And  stood — alone,  alone! 

He  clinched  his  hands  as  if  to  hold 

His  soul's  great  agony; 
"  Have  I  renounced  my  womanhood, 

For  wifehood  unto  theel 
And  is  this  the  last,  last  look  of  thine 

That  ever  I  shall  see? 

"  Yet  God  thee  save,  and  may'st,  thou  have 

A  lady  to  thy  mind; 
More  woman  proud  and  half  as  true 

As  one  thou  leav'st  behind! 
And  God  me  take  with  Him  to  dwell — 
For  Him  I  cannot  love  too  well. 

As  I  have  loved  my  kind." 

The  tramp  of  hoof,  the  flash  of  steel — 
The  Paynims  round  her  coming! 


Persuade  yourself  that  there  are  blind  men  and  deaf  vteti  in  your  audience 
tuhojn  you  must  inoTe,  interest^  and  persuade.  Your  inflection  must  become 
pantoviivie  to  the  blind,  and  your  pantomime,  inflection   to  the  deaf. — Del- 

SARTE. 

4. _ . 


r 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  147 

The  sound  and  sight  have  made  her  calm, 

False  page,  but  truthful  woman! 
She  stands  amid  them  all  unmoved; 
The  heart  once  broken  by  the  loved 

Is  strong  to  meet  the  foeman. 

"  Ho,  Christian  page!  art  keeping  sheep, 

From  pouring  wine  cups  resting?" 
"  I  keep  my  master's  noble  name 

For  warring,  not  for  feasting; 
And  if  that  here  Sir  Hubert  were, 
My  master  brave,  my  master  dear, 

Ye  would  not  stay  to  question." 

"Where  is  thy  master,  scornful  page, 

That  we  may  slay  or  bind  him?" 
"  Now  search  the  lea  and  search  the  wood, 

And  see  if  ye  can  find  him! 
Nathless,  as  hath  been  often  tried. 
Your  Paynim  heroes  faster  ride, 

Before  him  than  behind  him." 

"Give  smoother  answers,  lying  page. 

Or  perish  in  the  lying." 
"  I  trow  that  if  the  warrior  brand 
Beside  my  foot,  were  in  my  hand, 

'Twere  better  at  replying." 
They  cursed  her  deep,  they  smote  her  low, 
They  cleft  her  golden  ringlets  through: 

The  loving  is  the  dying. 


Feeling,  thought,  and  afft'ction  are  the  three  /onus  or  acts  of  being.  Feeling 
springs  frotn  a  sensitive  principle  of  being:  thought  frotn  a  rejleciive:  love 
jrom  an  affective.  From  the  sensitive  principle  of  being  Jloiv  passional  emo- 
tions; from  the  reflective  principle  of  being  flow  rational  emotions:  from 
the  affective  principle  of  being  flow  moral  or  volitional  emotions. — Steele 
Mackaye.  I 


148         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

SUE  AN'  ME. 


David  Belasco. 


"  T  TGH,  ugh!  I'm  awful  sick,  mister,  I  am.  Jus'  got 
out  ter-day,  an'  I  kin  hardly  talk.  I  hopes  I 
won't  ketch  the  fever,  I  do,"  spoke  a  ragged  little  urchin 
with  trembling  voice  and  tearful  eyes,  on  a  bitter  cold, 
snowy  night. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  o'  yer  talkin',  mister;  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter 
part  with  Sue,"  continued  he,  pointing  to  a  sickly-look- 
ing child  fast  asleep  on  the  curbstone.  "  I'd  like  ter  know 
what  I'd  do  without  her,  I  would.  "  I  never  had  no 
father  nor  mother,  as  I  knows  of;  an'  as  for  Sue,  her'n 
is  dead  an'  buried  as  them  as  'as  no  friends  nor  money  are 
put  away.  We  ain't  got  nobody  in  the  world  but  our- 
selves— but  we  does  werry  well  as  we  is.  We  don't  want 
nare  a  body.  Sue  an'  me.  She  ain't  my  sister,  but  she's 
jus'  as  good  as  one.  Her  own  mother  give  her  ter  me, 
when  she  were  only  a  little  thing,  so  high.  I  lived  along 
with  old  Jacob  Prue,  then,  an'  Sue  an'  her  mother  lived 
in  the  room  above  our'n.  Sue  an'  me  we  used  to  play 
together,  an'  I  cared  more  for  her  than  anythink  else  in 
the  v/orld.  By  an'  by  Jacob  Prue  got  sent  ter  prison  for 
breakin'  open  a  shop;  an'  Sue's  mother  she  let  me  live 
in  her  room,  an'  give  me  vittals — when  she  had  any. 
We  wuz  just  as  happy  as  cherrybyns,  was  Sue  an'  me 
an'  her  mother  till  the  fever  come.  The  people  in  our 
alley  died  awful,  an'  Sue's  mother  wuz  tuk.  We  had 
the  doctor  from  the  hospital — but  she  didn't  get  no  bet- 
ter; an'  one  night  when  I  came  in,  she  called  me,  an' 
she  sez   'Bill,  I'm  a-goin';'    'Where?'  sez  I,  for  I  thought 


Avy  interrogation  vtade  -with  crossed  arms  viust  partake  of  the  character  \ 
of  a  threat. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  149 

she  wuz  a-talkin'  some  of  the  mad  riibbidge  she  used  ter 
when  the  fever  was  strong;  but  she  wuzn't — she  wuz 
sensible  as  you;  an' she  tells  me  agin:  '  Bill,  I'm  a-goin',' 
"I  didn't  ask  her  where  then.  I  knowed  she  wuz 
goin'  ter  die,  an'  I  put  my  head  on  the  piller  an'  cried 
fur  the  fust  time  since  she  wuz  tuk;  an'  Sue  cried  too; 
an'  we  wuz  a  miserable  lot  of  us  in  that  ere  attic.  Arter 
a  bit  I  wuz  quiet.  I  picked  out  my  bes'  bit  o'  bread  an' 
meat,  an'  tried  ter  feed  her — but  it  wuzn't  of  no  good, 
mister;  she  was  a-goin'  with  the  fever.  So  she  sez,  with 
a  smile  ter  kinder  make  me  feel  better,  'It  ain't  no  use, 
Bill,  I'm  a-goin'  fast.'  Then  she  tuk  my  hand,  an'  said, 
solemn-like:  'Bill,  promise  when  I'm  dead  as  you'll  look 
arter  Sue;  she  ain't  got  no  friend  in  the  world  but  her 
poor,  dyin'  mother  an'  you.'  'I  will,'  sez  I;  'I'll  stick 
ter  Sue  like  bricks  an'  mortar.'  'Bill,'  she  went  on, 
'  you  won't  let  her  steal?'  '  Never,'  sez  I;  '  I'll  look  arter 
her  as  good  as  you  do,  I  will.'  She  wuz  a  bit  pleased 
at  that,  an'  we  wuz  all  quiet.  It  wuz  gittin'  darkish  an' 
her  face  looked  whiter  an'  whiter;  an'  Sue  had  gone  to 
sleep,  jus'  as  you  see  her  now,  an'  I  an'  her  mother  w'uz 
awake,  w^aitin'  like  for  the  end  of  it.  All  of  a  suddint 
she  called  out  an'  tuk  my  hand. 

"  '  Bill,'  sez  she,  '  kneel  an'  say  "  Our  Father." ' 
"  I  didn't  know  what  she  meant,  but  I  got  on  my  knees 
alongside  o'  her,  an'  looked  up  to  w'here  she  wuz  a-pointin' 
ter  a  star  through  the  winder,  an'  I  kep'  on  a-sayin'  it — 
'Our  Father,  Our  Father,  Our  Father,'  an'  a-wonderin' 
all  the  time  where  He  wuz;  an'  when  I  looked  roun'  she 
wuz  gone.  Nex'  mornin'  she  wuz  tuk  awa}',  an'  little 
Sue  an'  me  we's  ben  together  ever  since.  Ah!  the  the- 
ayter's  out;  I  mus'  be  a-goin'.     See,  Sue's  wakin'  up — 

* ^^ 1 

Not  things  tftemselTes,   but  the  /•rinci/'les  that  are   their  essence,   shoulit 

be  the  grand  study. — Franklin  H.  Sakc.ent. 


150         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

she  dreamed  las'  night  she  wuz  a-eatin'  beefsteak  an' 
gravy  with  lots  of  brown  injins,  an'  I  hopes  ter  make  it 
real  ter-night.  Good-bye,  mister  ;  I'm  werry  much 
obliged;  but  it  would  be  worser'n  than  the  fever  ter 
part  Sue  an'  me." 


THE  DISCUSSION. 


Translated  and  Adapted  from  the  French. 


n  /•    r>  .    S  Smith. 

Dramatis  I  ersoiice  .     <.  y 

(  Jones. 

Scene  : A  parlor. 

[The  words  in  brackets  are  not  to  be  spoken.  They  simply  give  the 
idea  that  is  in  Jones's  mind,  and  that  the  tone  of  his  voice  is  supposed  to 
convey.  Very  taking  when  well  done,  and  an  excellent  study  in  panto- 
mime.— Editor.] 

OMITH  \^c uie ring,  followed  by  Jones\.    Well!  even  then! 
Besides,  what  would  you  do? 
]o'S'E?>\^shaking  his  /lead  sigiiijicaiifl\'\.     Hm!  hm!  hm! 
Smith.    Unless.  .  .  Oh!  then  it  would  be  quite  differ- 
ent.    Just  think! 
Jones.     Hm!  hm! 

Smith.  Then  you  don't  think  any  arrangements  could 
be  made.     It  would  be  useless  to  try,  wouldn't  it? 

Jones.     Hm!  hm!  hm!  \^I think  so."] 

Smith.  On  the  other  hand,  I  think  it  would  be  better, 
don't  you? 

Jones.  Hm!  hm!  [Maybe.'\ 
Smith.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  really  care;  I  am 
—J- 


Perhaps  the  best  gesture  is  that  ivhich  is  the  least  apparent. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  151 

only  interested  in   the  matter  on  his  account.     What  I 

ani  afraid  of  is  what  people  might  say  about  it. 

Jones,    tim!  \^T/iat  is  so.l 

Smi  rir.      People  are  so  unkind.     And  then  it  is  such  a 

delicate    matter.      The    newspapers    will    soon    make    a 

scandal  out  of  it! 

Jones.    Hm!  hm!  hm!  [^Yes,  a  great  sca?idal.'] 

Smith.    The  report  should  have  been  denied  from  the 

start;  now  it  is  too  late. 

Jones.    Hm!  \^You  are  right.^ 

Smith.     Attempt  a  reconciliation?     He  would   never 

consent  to  that;    and,  besides,  it  would  be  impossible. 

But  wait — no,  that  wouldn't  do.     What  do  you  think? 
Jones.    Hm!  hm!  [//  is  hard  to  say\ 

Smith.     I  cannot  tell  which  would  be  better.     I  don't 

know  what  to  say!     Let  things  take  their  course?     What 

is  your  opinion? 

Jones.     Hm!  hm!  hm!  hm!  \^I  should  not  dare  say!\ 

Smith.    You  don't  dare  give  an  opinion?     I  know  it  is 

hard. 

Jones.    Hm!  hm!  hm!  \Ycs,very  hard^ 

Smith.    What  would  be  the  result?     Come  to  think  of 

it,  there  are  no  reasons  for  .  .  .  To  be  sure.  .  .  but  then 

.  .  .  We  would  have  to  .  .  .  only! — There  is  no  denying 

it,  it  is  incomprehensible. 

Jones.     Hm!  hm!  hmhm!  \_Iiuo))ipre}icnsible?^ 

Smith.     F"or  my  part,   I  don't  know   what   to  say.     I 

give  it  up.     What  ought  he  to  say? 

Jones.     Hm!  hm!       \That  is  some  tiling  I  must  consider.^ 
Smith.     How  ought  he  to  act?     Should  he  be  coldly 

indifferent  or  e.xceedinsjlv  aiigrv? 


But  oiii g^estiire  is  needtd for  the  {■.rf'tcssiot:  of  ais  entire  thought :  since  it  is 
not  the  word  hut  the  thought  that  the  gesture  must  nnnou nee:  i/ it  expressed 
only  the  word^  it  ivould  be  trivial  and  Htean,  and  also  prejudicial  to  the  effect 
of  the  phrase. — Delaumosne. 
4. •{• 


152  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Jones.    Hm!  hm!  hm!  hm! 

\_N either  the  one  nor  the  other ^ 

Smith.  I  know  him  better  than  any  one.  Disagreeable 
disposition.     Not  bearing  malice,  but  cross,  irritable. 

Jones.    Hm!  hm!  \^Don't  be  too  hard  on  him.^ 

Smith.  Yes,  he  is  irritable.  I  shall  leave  him  alone. 
I  do  not  approve  of  the  course  he  has  taken.  Poor 
boy! 

Jones.    Hm!  hm!  hm!  hm! 

[/  dont  think  he  was  altogether  wrong. ^ 

Smith.  You  seem  to  think  just  the  contrary.  How- 
ever, it  cannot  but  give  him  a  bad  name.  At  any  rate, 
it  is  nobody's  fault  but  his  own. 

Jones.    Hm!  \^That  is  so.'] 

Smith.  Ah!  at  last  you  are  obliged  to  give  in.  After 
all,  he  is  a  good  fellow. 

Jones.     Hmhmhm!  hmhm! 

[/  do  not  agree  7vith  you  there^ 

Smith.  Yes,  I  assure  you.  Things  have  been  said 
about  him,  but  they  are  false. 

Jones.     Hm!  hm!  \^I doubt  it.] 

Smith.  They  are  false,  I  tell  you.  But  we  haven't 
come  to  any  point.  Don't  you  think  we  are  launched 
upon  a  rather  disagreeable  affair?  Do  you  see  a  way 
out  of  it? 

Jones.     Hmhmhm!  \^I  am  not  sure  that  I  do.] 

Smith.  There  is  none,  is  there?  The  simplest  thing, 
I  should  say,  is  to  do  nothing  at  all  about  it. 

Jones.     Hm!  hmhmhm!        \^I  guess  you  are  right  there.] 

Smith.  Come,  let's  go  out;  we  can  talk  it  over  more 
freely  in  the  street. 

[  Takes  Jones's  arm  and  both  go  out.] 
^ 4. 

1/  you  would  move  others,  put  your  heart  in  ike  place  oy your  larynx:  let 
your  voice  become  a  mysterious  hand  to  caress  the  hearer.— T>elsartb. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  153 

CONVERSATIONAL. 


"  T_r  OW'S  your  father?"     Came  the  whisper, 

Basliful  Ned  the  silence  breaking; 
"Oh,  he's  nicely,"  Annie  murmured, 
Smilingly  the  question  taking. 

Conversation  flagged  a  moment, 

Hopeless,  Ned  essayed  another: 
"Annie,  I — T,"  then  a  coughing, 

And  the  question,  "  How's  your  mother?" 

"Mother?  Oh,  she's  doing  nicely!" 
Fleeting  fast  was  all  forbearance, 

When  in  low,  despairing  accents 

Came  the  climax,"  How's  your  parents?" 


THE  LOW-BACKED  CAR. 


Samuel  Lover. 


w 


HEN  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 


'Twas  on  a  market-day.  i 

•'  ( 

A  low-backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay; 
But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 

And  decked  with  flowers  of  spring. 
No  flower  was  there,  that  could  compare 

To  the  blooming  girl  I  sing! 


I/ihc  voice  is  the  soul  of  the  dratun,  facial  expression  is  its  li/e.—KEW  W. 
R.  Alger. 


154  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


Mtisic  to  '■'■The  Low-backed  Car.'''' 

Lively,  but  not  too  fast. 


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DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  155 

Music  to  '■'■The  Low-backed  Car.'''' 


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156  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

As  she  sat  in  her  low-backed  car, 

The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar, 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 
But  just  rubbed  his  auld  poll. 

And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car! 

In  battle's  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars, 
With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tythes 

Of  death,  in  warlike  cars! 
But  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess. 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye, 
That  knock  men  down  in  the  market-town, 

As  right  and  left  they  fly! 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 

Than  battle  more  dangerous  far, 
For  the  doctor's  art  cannot  cure  the  heart 

That  is  hit  from  the  low-backed  car! 

Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir! 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese. 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters. 

By  far  outnumber  these; 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits. 

Just  like  a  turtle-dove. 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage. 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love! 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 

The  lovers  come  near  and  far. 
And  envy  the  chicken  that  Peggy  is  pickin'. 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car! 


Nothing  is  moye  deplorable  than  a  gesture  without  a  motive. — Dklsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  157 

I'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 
Than  a  coacli  and  four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me. 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, — 
While  Peggy  would  be  beside  me. 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist. 
As  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car. 

To  be  married  by  Father  Maher; 
Oh,  my  heart  would  beat  high,  at  her  glance  and  her 
sigh, 

The'  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  car! 


COUNT  GISMOND, 


RoiiKKr  Browning. 


[The  following  incident  in  her  life  is  told  by  the  wife  of  Count  Gis- 
mond  to  a  friend,  while  the  count  is  not  present.  His  sudden  entrance 
and  the  quick,  graceful  change  of  conversation  which  the  wife  makes 
as  she  sees  him,  that  he  may  not  be  pained  by  recalling  unpleasant 
events,  affords  opportunity  for  the  reciter's  tact  in  the  closing  stanza. 
The  selection  is  very  effective  when  the  reciter  seats  herself  with  appar- 
ent unconsciousness  of  the  act  during  the  second  stanza,  rising  at  the 
words  "  Gismond  here,"  in  the  last  stanza. — EDrroK.J 

/'""^HRIST  GOD  who  savest  man,  save  most 
^-^  Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me! 
Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post. 

Chose  time  and  place  and  company 
To  suit  it;  when  he  struck  at  length 
My  honor,  'twas  with  all  his  strength. 


Gesture  is   a   running   commentary  on  the   words.     It  should   not  be  used 
merely  for  emphasis,   but   to   explain   and  color   the  meaning. — Ge.nevievb 
Stebbins. 
'f ^     ^ 


158         DLESARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  doubtlessly,  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 

To  please  themselves:  'twas  all  their  deed. 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face. 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 

But  no:  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 

My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs — 

And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 
Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 

And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 
Under  the  canopy — (a  streak 

That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun. 

Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun) — 

And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 
And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 
Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 


To  use  expression  at  random  on  our  own  authority,  expression  at  all  haz- 
ards, is  absurd. — Delsarte. 


r 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  159 

My  qucen's-day — oh,  I  think  the  cause 
Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 
Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud! 

However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down;  'twas  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but . .  .  there,  'twill  last 
No  long  time  .  .  .  the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain! 

See!   Gismond's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 
With  his  two  boys:  I  can  proceed. 

Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 
Forth  boldly — to  my  face,  indeed — 

But  Gauthier?  and  he  thundered  "Stay!" 

And  all  stayed.     "  Bring  no  crowns,  I  say! 

"  Bring  torches!     Wind  the  penance-slieet 
About  her!     Let  her  cleave  to  right, 

Or  lay  herself  before  our  feet! 

Shall  she,  who  sinned  with  me  at  night, 

Unblushing,  queen  it  in  the  day.'' 

For  honor's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say!" 

I?     What  I  answered?     As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?     No  more  says  the  soul. 


Gestures  are  f>anio»iimic  verbs,  a>t<{  ttlways  imply  an  action.     Attitudes  are 
pantomimic  adverbs,  and  qualify  gestures  or  actions. — Steele  M  ackave. 


l6o         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Till  out  strode  Gismond:  then  I  knew 
That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 

His  face  before;  but,  at  first  view, 
I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 

Himself  to  Satan:  who  would  spend 

A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end  ? 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  mouth 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 

In  blood  men's  verdict  then.     North,  south, 

East,  west,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead 

And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  o'  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond,  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event; 

God  took  that  on  Him — I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part:  I  did. 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 

Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground: 
Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  slight 

O'  the  sword,  but,  open-breasted,  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet. 

And  said,  "  Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 
In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 


Art  is  not  an  ivtitation  of  nature:  art  is  better  than  nature.     It  is  nature 
illuminated. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  i6l 

From  my  first  to  God's  second  death! 
Say,  hast  thou  lied  ?"     And,  "  I- have  lied 
To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 

Then  Gismond  kneeling  to  me  asked 
—  What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  forever,  to  a  third. 

Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world;  and  scarce  I  felt 

His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 
A  little  shifted  in  its  belt. 

For  he  began  to  say  the  while 

How  south  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 

So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 

Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 
Their  lives,  untroubled  as  before 

I  vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 

God  lighten!     May  his  soul  find  grace! 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great  brow;  though  when  his  brother's  black 
Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it .  .  .  Gismond  here  ? 

And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back? 
I  was  just  telling  Adela 
How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 


* 


A  man  who  menaces  with  the  head  is  not  sure  0/  his  aim,  but  he  who  men- 
aces with  the  hand  is  sure  0/  striking  right. — Deuaumosne. 


1 62         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE  TRUMPETER'S  BE- 
TROTHED. 


Translated  by  Lucy  H.  Hooper. 

TV /T  Y  lord,  the  Duke  of  Brittany, 

For  wars  in  which  his  soul  delights, 
Has  called  from  Nantes  to  far  Montagne, 
On  the  mount  and  in  the  plain, 
All  the  bravest  of  his  knights. 

There  are  barons  whose  proud  flags 
Wave  their  moated  keeps  above; 

Valiant  sires  in  arms  grown  old, 

Warriors  in  ranks  untold — 
One  of  them's  the  man  I  love! 

He  has  gone  to  Aquitaine 

As  a  trumpeter,  and  yet 
You  would  take  him  for  a  knight, 
With  his  garb  all  gold  bedight, 

And  his  head  so  proudlyset. 

Joining  unto  mine  his  fate, 

I  have  prayed  my  patron  saint: 
"Make  his  guardian  angel  keep 
Watch  the  while  he  wake  or  sleep, 
For  with  fear  my  heart  grows  faint." 

I  have  said  to  our  good  priest, 
"  Father,  for  our  soldiers  pray!" 

Then  at  holy  Gildas'  shrine 

Three  wax  tapers  fair  and  fine, 
I  have  lighted  yesterday. 


There  are  two  kinds  of  loud  7'oices:  the  z'ocally  loud,  ivhich  is  the  7'ulgar 
voice;  and  the  dynamically  loud,  ivhich  is  the poiver/ul  voice. — Delsarte. 


r 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  163 

Homeward  from  the  wars  to-day, 

Comes  he  at  his  monarch's  side  ; 
He's  no  common  lover  now, 
I  can  lift  my  erst  bowed  brow, 

And  my  joy  is  blent  with  pride. 

Conquering  the  duke  returns, 

With  his  war-worn  flag  above. 
For  the  cortege  come  and  wait, 
Soon  you'll  see  it  pass  the  gate. 

And  the  prince,  and  him  I  love! 

Come  and  see  his  gallant  steed, 

Decked  in  honor  of  the  day, 
As  it  goes  with  stately  tread, 
Neighing,  tossing  up  its  head. 

Crowned  with  plumes  in  colors  gay. 

Sisters,  why  so  slow  to  dress? 

Come  and  see  my  conqueror, 
And  the  trumpet,  wrought  in  gold, 
Ouiv'ring  in  his  nervous  hold — 

Ah,  my  gallant  trumpeter! 

Come  to  see  him — he  himself! 

'Neath  the  mantle  rich  and  rare 
That  I  worked  with  gold  and  gem. 
Like  a  royal  diadem 

He  his  gilded  casque  will  wear. 

In  yon  church  a  gypsy  hag. 

Calling  me  last  night  to  her, 
Said  (O  saints  watch  over  me!) 


By  holding  the  initial  consonant,  the  word  is  pronounced  as  by  an  e.r/>losion, 
and  is  Jilled  with  po^ver  instead  oj" itie re  sound.  — Gn>iE.\l^\R  Steudins. 


1 64  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"To  the  music's  ecstasy 

There  will  lack  a  trumpeter!" 

But  I've  so  prayed  that  I  hope, 

Though  with  serpent  glance  she  said, 
Pointing  to  an  open  tomb: 
"  There,  to-morrow,  mid  the  gloom, 
I  shall  wait  thee  with  the  dead!" 

Hasten!  no  more  dismal  thoughts — 

Hark!  the  rolling  drums  I  hear! 
Flags  and  flowers  fill  the  air, 
And  the  throngs  of  ladies  fair 
In  the  purple  tents  appear. 

See  the  long  procession  comes! 

Men-at-arms  with  heavy  tread. 
Then,  beneath  the  banner's  fold. 
Barons  clad  in  silk  and  gold. 

Velvet-capped  each  haughty  head 

Next,  the  Persian  mail  admire 

Of  the  Templars,  feared  of  hell! 
Under  the  long  partisan 
Come  the  archers  from  Lausanne, 
All  in  buff-coats — note  them  well. 

Here's  the  duke!  his  banner — see. 

In  the  breeze  it  throbs  and  stirs; 
Now  the  captive  flags  appear, 
Heavy-drooping,  shamed  and  drear. 
Look — here  come  the  trumpeters! 

•!•  ^  %  ^  ^ 


Art  should  move  the  secret  springs  of  life,  convince  the  mind,  and  persuade 
the  hea>t. —  Delsartb. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         165 

As  she  speaks  her  eager  glance 

On  tlie  serried  ranks  is  cast; 
Careless  laughs  the  crowd  around, 
Prone  she  falls  upon  the  ground — ■ 

All  the  trumpeters  had  passed! 


EVEN  THIS  SHALL  PASS  AWAY. 


/^NCE  in  Persia  reigned  a  king, 

Who  upon  his  signet  ring 
Graved  a  maxim  true  and  wise, 
Which,  if  held  before  the  eyes. 
Gave  iiim  counsel  at  a  glance, 
Fit  for  every  change  and  chance. 
Solemn  words,  and  these  are  they: 
"  Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Trains  of  camels  through  the  sand 
Brought  him  gems  from  Samarcand; 
Fleets  of  galleys  through  the  seas 
Brought  him  pearls  to  match  with  these. 
But  he  counted  not  his  gain 
Treasures  of  the  mine  or  main; 
"  What  is  wealth  ?"  the  king  would  say; 
"Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

In  the  revels  of  his  court 
At  the  zenith  of  the  sport, 
When  the  palms  of  all  his  guests 


Adherenre  to  mere  authority^  tradition,  usnce,  or  dry  technicality,  is  fatal 
to  inspiration.  This  carried  to  extremes  ninkes  the  most  cultivated  player  or 
speaker  a  mere  professor  of  post  tires. — Rev.  W.  R.  Ai.oek. 


I66  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Burned  with  clapping  at  his  jests, 
He,  amid  his  figs  and  wine. 
Cried:  "  Oh,  loving  friends  of  mine! 
Pleasure  comes,  but  not  to  stay; 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Fighting  on  a  furious  field. 
Once  a  javelin  pierced  his  shield. 
Soldiers  with  a  loud  lament 
Bore  him  bleeding  to  his  tent; 
Groaning  from  his  tortured  side, 
"Pain  is  hard  to  bear,"  he  cried, 
"  But,  with  patience,  day  by  day — 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Towering  in  the  public  square, 
Twenty  cubits  in  the  air, 
Rose  his  statue  carved  in  stone. 
Then  the  king,  disguised,  unknown,    ^ 
Stood  before  his  sculptured  name, 
Musing  meekly:  "What  is  fame? 
Fame  is  but  a  slow  decay — 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Struck  with  pals}^  sere  and  old, 
Waiting  at  the  gates  of  gold. 
Said  he,  with  his  dying  breath: 
"  Life  is  done,  but  what  is  breath  ?" 
Then  in  answer  to  the  king 
Fell  a  sunbeam  on  his  ring, 
Showing  by  a  heavenly  ray- 
"  Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

A 

The  whining;,  tearful  tone  is  always  weak. — DElsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  KEClTAriON  BOOK.  iGy 

THE  PROPOSAL. 


Margaret  Vandegrift. 


T_J  E  had"  been  trying  all  the  winter  through 

To  speak  the  fateful  words;  and  well  she  knew 
He  had  been  trying — but  what  could  she  do  ? 

And  just  because  he  did  adore  her  so, 

His  tongue  would  stammer,  and  his  voice  would  go, 

At  bare  idea  of  a  possible  *'  No." 

He  had  a  friend,  a  learned  young  professor. 
Him  he  had  constituted  his  confessor, 
And  general  moral  ganger  and  assessor. 

To  him  were  told  the  maiden's  simple  wiles. 

Her  pretty  blushes  and  beguiling  smiles. 

In  many  words,  and  various  moods  and  styles. 

The  swain  would  boast  him  to  the  liltle  maid, 

When  he  of  other  subjects  was  afraid. 

Of  all  the  learning  that  his  friend  displayed. 

And  so,  one  evening,  when  it  chanced  that  she 
Was  bidden  to  an  evening  company. 
She  went,  with  hope  this  paragon  to  see. 

And  he  was  there  ;  so,  too,  her  bashful  swain, 
Who,  strangely,  did  not  help  her  to  attain 
The  introduction  which  she  hoped  to  gain. 

For  he  had  suddenly  grown  sore  afraid 

That  a  professor  of  so  high  a  grade 

Would  straight  supplant  him  with  his  little  maid. 

* ^ 1 

He  only  is  an  elocutionist  who  forgets  elocution. — Moses  Tki  e  Brown. 
^— 4. 


l68  BELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

She  waited  long,  and  then — most  hardily 

For    one    who    thought    that    maids    should    not    be 

"free,"— 
"Will  you  present  me  to  your  friend?"  said  she. 

Now  was  his  chance!     Fiercely  his  pulses  hammered, 

She'd  surely  hear  his  heart,  so  loud  it  clamored; 

"  I — can't  present  you — you're  not  mine!"  he  stammered. 

"And  if  you  were  " — now,  that  he  had  begun, 
His  courage  rose — "  I'd  keep  you,  dearest  one!" 
"Always  ?"  she  murmured.     "Always!"     It  was  done! 


JOVITA;    OR,  THE  CHRISTMAS 
GIFT. 

Bret  Harte.    Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 

T  T  had  been  raining  in  the  valley  of  the  Sacramento. 
The  North  Fork  had  overflowed  its  banks  and  Rat- 
tlesnake Creek  was  impassable.  Farther  on,  cut  off  and 
inaccessible,  smitten  by  high  winds  and  threatened  by 
high  water,  Simpson's  Bar,  on  the  eve  of  Christmas  Day, 
clung  like  a  swallow's  nest  to  the  mountain,  and  shook 
in  the  blast.  As  night  shut  down,  a  few  lights  gleamed 
through  the  mist  from  the  cabins  on  either  side  of  the 
highway.  Most  of  the  population  were  gathered  at 
Thompson's  store,  clustered  around  a  red-hot  stove,  at 
which  they  silently  spat  in  some  accepted  sense  of  so- 
cial communion  that  rendered  conversation  unneces- 
sary. 

. '■ ^ 

I 

The  voice  should  be  a  reflection  of  the  exJ>ression  of  the  face. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  169 

Just  then  a  figure  entered  known  to  the  company  as 
■'The  Old  Man." 

"  Dismal  weather,  ain't  it?"  he  said.  "  No  show  for 
money  this  season,  and  to-morrow's  Christmas.  Yes, 
Christmas,  and  to-night's  Christmas  Eve.  Ye  see,  boys, 
I  kinder  thought — that  is,  I  sorter  had  an  idee,  jest 
passin'  like,  you  know — that  maybe  ye'd  all  like  to 
come  over  to  my  house  to-night  and  have  a  sort  of  tear 
round.  But  I  suppose,  now,  you  wouldn't?  Don't  feel 
like  it,  maybe?"  he  added,  anxiously,  peering  into  the 
faces  of  his  companions. 

Dick  BuUen,  the  oracle  and  leader  of  the  boys,  arose, 
shook  himself,  and  saying,  "  I'm  ready;  lead  the  way, 
Old  Man;  here  goes,"  with  a  characteristic  howl  darted 
out  into  the  night. 

Their  way  led  up  Pine-Tree  Canon,  at  the  head  of 
which  a  broad,  low,  bark-thatched  cabin  burrowed  in 
the  mountain-side.     It  was  the  home  of  the  Old  Man. 

"  P'r'aps  ye'd  better  hold  on  a  second  out  yer,  whilst 
I  go  in  and  see  thet  things  is  all  right,"  said  the  Old 
Man. 

Presently  the  latch  clicked,  and  a  voice  said,  "  Come 
in  out  o'  the  wet." 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  small  boy,  in  a  weak  treble.  He 
had  evidently  just  risen  from  his  bed.  "Come  in,"  he 
repeated.  "  The  Old  Man's  in  there  talking  to  mar," 
he  continued,  pointing  to  an  adjacent  room. 

Entering,  the  men  ranged  themselves  around  a  table 
of  rough  boards.  Johnny  then  gravely  proceeded  to  a 
cupboard  and  brought  out  several  articles  which  he 
deposited  on  the  table.  "Thar's  whiskey.  And  crack- 
ers. And  red  herons.  And  cheese."  He  took  a  bite 
4. 


ly  ike  orator  would  s/'f ilk  to  any  purf'ose.  he  must  bring  hack  his  discourse  to 
some  picture  from  nature^  to  some  scene  from  real  li/e. — Delai'MOSNe. 


* 


i;o  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

of  the  latter  on  his  way  to  the  table.  "And  sugar." 
He  scooped  up  a  mouthful  with  a  small  and  very  dirty 
hand.  "And  terbacker.  Thar's  dried  appils,  too,  on 
the  shelf,  but  I  don't  admire  'em.  Appils  is  swellin'. 
Thar,"  he  concluded,  "  now  wade  in,  and  don't  be 
afeard." 

He  stepped  to  the  threshold  of  a  small  room  holding 
a  small  bed,  and  nodded. 

"  Hello,  Johnny!  You  ain't  goin'  to  turn  in  agin,  are 
ye?"  said  Dick. 

"Yes,  I  are,"  responded  Johnny. 

"Why,  wot's  up,  old  fellow?" 

"  I'm  sick." 

"  How  sick?" 

"  I've  got  a  fevier.  And  childblains.  And  roomatiz," 
returned  Johnny,  and  vanished  within.  After  a  mo- 
ment's pause  he  added,  "And  biles!" 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  festivities  were 
interrupted  by  the  querulous  voice  of  Johnny:  "Oh, 
dad!" 

The  Old  Man  arose  and  disappeared.  Presently  he 
reappeared 

"His  roomatiz  is  comin' on  agin  bad,"  he  explained, 
"and  he  wants  rubbin'.  You  hold  on  all  o'  you  for  a 
spell,  and  I'll  be  back;"  and  vanished  again.  The  door 
closed  but  imperfectly,  and  the  following  dialogue  was 
audible: 

"  Now,  sonny,  whar  does  she  ache  worst?" 

"Sometimes  over  yar  and  sometimes  under  yer;  but 
it's  most  powerful  from  yer  to  yer.     Rub  yer,  dad." 

A  silence  seemed  to  indicate  a  brisk  rubbing.  Then 
Johnny: 


Art  is  a  regenerating  or  delighting  power  ,—T>e.i.sk-rt&. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  171 

"  Hevin'  a  good  time  out  yer,  dad?" 

"  Yes,  sonny." 

"  To-morrer's  Chrismiss,  ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,  sonny.     How  does  she  feel  now?" 

"  Better.  Rub  a  little  furder  down.  Wot's  Chris- 
miss,  anyway?     Wot's  it  all  about?" 

♦'  Oh,  it's  a  day." 

This  exhaustive  definition  was  apparently  satisfac- 
tory, for  there  was  a  silent  interval.  Presently  Johnny 
again: 

"  Mar  sez  that  everywhere  else  but  yer  everybody 
oives  things  to  everybody  Chrismiss.  She  sez  thar's  a 
a  man  they  call  Sandy  Claws,  not  a  white  man,  you 
know,  but  a  kind  o'  Chinemin,  comes  down  the  chim- 
bley  night  afore  Chrismiss  and  give  things  to  childern, 
— boys  like  me.  Puts  'em  in  their  butes!  Thet's  what 
she  tried  to  play  on  me.  Easy  now,  pop,  whar  are  you 
rubbin'  to,  thet's  a  mile  from  the  place.  She  jest  made 
thet  up,  didn't  she,  jest  to  aggrewate  me  and  you  ? 
Don't  rub  tliar.  It's  mighty  cur'o's  about  Chrismiss, 
ain't  it?     Why  do  they  call  it  Chrismiss?" 

The  Old  Man's  reply  was  so  low  as  to  be  inaudible 
beyond  the  nwm. 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny,  "  I've  heerd  o'  him  before.  Thar, 
that'll  do,  dad.  I  don't  ache  near  so  bad  as  I  did. 
Now  wrap  me  tight  in  this  yer  blanket.  So.  Now,  sit 
down  yer  by  me  till  I  go  asleep,"  and  to  assure  himself 
of  obedience,  he  grasped  his  father's  sleeve. 

For  some  minutes  the  Old  Man  waited  patiently. 
Then  the  stillness  excited  his  curiosity,  and,  without 
moving  from  the  bed,  he  cautiously  opened  the  door 
and  looked   into  tlie  main  room.     It  was  dark  and  de- 


The  most  frecious  relish  cf  conversation,  and  the  divinest  charm  of  man- 
ners, is  the  living  play  of  the  spirit  in  the  features,  and  the  spontaneous  modu- 
lation of  the  for  ^n  by  the  passing  experience. — Rev.  W.  R.  Alger. 


172  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

serted;  but  a  smouldering  log  on  the  hearth  broke,  and 
by  the  blaze  he  saw  Dick  Bullen. 

"Hello!" 

Dick  started. 

"  Whar's  the  boys?"  said  the  Old  Man. 

"Gone  up  the  canon.  They're  comin'  back  for  me  in 
a  minit.  Now  don't  you  git  up,"  as  the  Old  Man  made 
a  movement  to  release  his  sleeve  from  Johnny's  hand. 
"  Don't  you  mind  manners.  Sit  jest  whar  you  be;  I'm 
goin'  in  a  jiffy.     Thar,  that's  them  now." 

There  was  a  low  tap  at  the  door.  Dick  opened  it 
quickly,  nodded  "  good-night  "  to  his  host,  and  disap- 
peared. The  Old  Man  would  have  followed  him  but 
for  the  hand  that  unconsciously  grasped  his  sleeve.  He 
could  have  easily  disengaged  it:  it  was  small,  weak,  and 
emaciated.  But  perhaps  because  it  was  small,  weak, 
and  emaciated,  he  changed  his  mind,  and,  drawing  his 
chair  closer  to  the  bed,  rested  his  head  upon  it.  The 
room  faded  before  his  eyes,  went  out  and  left  him 
asleep. 

Meantime  Dick  Bullen  confronted  his  companions. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?"  said  one. 

"  Ready,"  said  Dick;  "  what's  the  time  ?" 

"  Past  twelve,"  was  the  reply.  "  Can  you  make  it  ? 
It's  nigh  on  fifty  miles,  the  round  trip  hither  and  yon." 

"  I  reckon,"  returned  Dick.      "  Whar's  the  mare  ?" 

"  Bill  and  Jack's  holdin'  her  at  the  crossin'." 

"  Let  'em  hold  her  a  minit  longer." 

Dick  re-entered  the  house  softly.  The  door  of  the 
little  room  was  open.  The  Old  Man  had  fallen  back  in 
his  chair,  snoring.     Beside  him,  on  a  narrow  bedstead. 


Art  is  at  once  the  kno7uledge^  the  possession,  and  the  free  direction  of  the 
agents,  by  iiirtue  of  ivhich  are  repealed  the  life,  soul,  and  mind.  It  is  the 
appropriation  of  the  sign  to  the  thing.  It  is  the  relation  of  the  beauties  scat- 
tered through  nature  to  a  superior  type.  It  is  not,  therefore,  the  mere  imita- 
tion of  nature. — Delsakte. 
^ _ _ 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  173 

lay  Johnny.  Dick  hesitated.  Everything  was  quiet. 
He  suddenly  parted  his  huge  mustache  with  both 
hands  and  stooped  over  the  sleeping  boy,  then  fled  in 
bashful  terror. 

His  companions  were  waiting  for  him.  Two  of  them 
were  struggling  with  a  strange  bulk,  which  took  the 
semblance  of  a  great  yellow  horse.  It  was  the  mare. 
She  was  not  a  pretty  picture.  From  her  Roman  nose 
to  her  rising  haunch,  from  her  arched  spine  hidden  by 
a  stiff  Mexican  saddle  to  her  thick,  straight,  bony  legs, 
there  was  not  a  line  of  equine  grace.  In  her  half-blind 
but  wholly  vicious  white  eyes,  in  her  protruding  under- 
lip,  in  her  color,  there  was  nothing  but  ugliness  and 
vice. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  one,  **  stand  cl'ar  of  her  heels,  boys 
and  up  with  you.  Don't  miss  j'our  first  holt  of  her  mane 
and  mind  ye  get  your  off  stirrup  quick.     Ready!" 

There  was  a  leap,  a  scrambling  struggle,  a  bound,  a 
wild  retreat  of  the  crowd,  a  circle  of  flying  hoofs,  two 
leaps  that  jarred  the  earth,  a  jingle  of  spurs,  a  plunge, 
and  then  the  voice  of  Dick  somewhere  in  the  darkness, 
"All  right!" 

"Don't  take  the  lower  road  back  onless  you're  hard 
pushed  for  time!  Don't  hold  her  in  down  hill!  We'll 
be  at  the  ford  at  five.     G'lang!     Hoopa!     Go!" 

A  splash,  a  spark  struck  from  the  ledge  in  the  road, 
a  clatter,  and  Dick  was  gone. 

One  o'clock  came,  and  Dick  had  only  gained  Rattle- 
snake Hill.  In  that  time  Jovita  had  practiced  all  her 
vices.  Thrice  had  she  stumbled.  Twice  had  she  struck 
out  madl}'  across  country.  Twice  had  she  reared  and 
fallen   backward,   and    twice   had    Dick,  unharmed,   re- 


The  first  or  im/>ressiona!  stage  of  art  is,  etiucationally  sf'Caking.  the  cultiA 
ration  of  the  senses,  anii  the  f<ou<ers  of  observation,     hi  /'antomimic  art  it  con- 
sists of  the  training  0/  the  a/-/'arati4s  of  the  body  to  the  finest  f-ossibU  response 
I  to,  and  freest  passage  for  the  sensations  acce/ited.— Franklin  H.  Sargent.  | 

V * 


174         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

gained  his  seat.  A  mile  beyond,  at  the  foot  of  a  long 
hill,  was  Rattlesnake  Creek.  Dick  knew  that  here 
was  the  crucial  test.  Jovita  began  the  descent  of  the 
hill.  As  Dick  expected,  the  momentum  she  had  ac- 
quired carried  her  beyond  the  point  of  balking,  and, 
holding  her  well  together  for  a  leap,  they  dashed  into 
the  middle  of  the  swiftly-flowing  current.  A  few  mo- 
ments of  kicking,  wading,  and  swimming,  and  Dick 
drew  a  long  breath  on  the  opposite  bank.  By  two 
o'clock  he  had  begun  the  descent  to  the  plain.  At  half- 
past  two  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  with  a  shout.  Beyond 
him  rose  two  spires,  a  flagstaff,  and  a  line  of  black  ob- 
jects. He  jingled  his  spurs,  and  in  another  moment 
swept  into  the  village. 

After  Jovita  had  been  handed  over  to  a  sleepy  ostler, 
whom  she  at  once  kicked  into  unpleasant  consciousness, 
Dick  sallied  out.  He  stopped  before  several  shops,  and 
by  persistent  tapping  roused  the  proprietors  and  made 
them  unbar  the  doors.  It  was  three  o'clock  before  this 
pleasantry  was  over,  and,  with  a  small  water-proof  bag 
strapped  on  his  shoulders,  Dick  dashed  down  the  lonely 
street  into  the  plain. 

The  storm  had  cleared  away,  but  it  was  half-past  four 
before  Dick  reached  the  crossing,  and  half  an  hour  later 
when  he  came  to  the  long  level  that  led  to  Rattlesnake 
Creek.  Suddenly  Jovita  shied.  Hanging  to  her  rein 
was  a  figure  that  had  leaped  from  the  bank,  and  from 
the  road  arose  a  shadowy  horse  and  riden 

"  Throw  up  your  hands,"  commanded  this  apparition. 

Dick  felt  the  mare  tremble,  quiver,  and  apparently 
sink  under  him.     Then  she  rose  in  the  air  with  a  terrific 


Bad  actors  exert  themselves  in  vain  to  be  moved  and  to  wove  spectators. 
On  the  other  hand,  true  artists  never  let  their  gestures  reveal  more  than  a 
tenth  part  of  the  secret  emotion  that  they  apparently  /eel,  and  would  hide 
from  the  audience  to  spare  their  scKsibilitics.  Thus  they  succeed  in  stirring 
all  s/ecta/ors.—DELSARTK. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  175 

bound,  throwing  the  figure  from  her  bit  with  a  single 
shake  of  her  vicious  head,  and  charged  on  the  horse- 
man. An  oath,  a  pistol-shot,  and  the  next  moment 
Jovita  was  a  hundred  yards  away.  But  the  good  right 
arm  of  her  rider,  sliattered  by  a  bullet,  dropped  help- 
lessly at  his  side. 

Without  slacking  his  speed  Dick  shifted  the  reins  to 
his  left  hand.  He  had  no  fear  of  pursuit,  but  looking 
up  he  saw  that  day  was  upon  him.  Absorbed  in  a  sin- 
gle idea,  he  forgot  his  wound,  and  dashed  on.  But  the 
creek  he  had  swam  a  few  hours  before  had  risen,  more 
than  doubled  its  volume,  and  now  rolled  a  swift  river. 
For  the  first  time  that  night  his  heart  sank.  But  the 
little  room  and  the  figures  of  the  sleeping  father  and  son 
rose  before  him.  He  cast  off  his  coat,  pistol,  boots,  and 
saddle,  bound  his  precious  pack  to  his  shoulders,  grasped 
the  bare  flanks  of  Jovita  with  his  bared  knees,  and  with 
a  shout  dashed  into  the  water.  A  cry  rose  from  the 
opposite  bank  as  the  heads  of  a  man  and  horse  strug- 
gled up  the  bank. 

The  Old  Man  started  and  woke.  Somebody  was  rap- 
ping at  the  door.  He  opened  it,  but  fell  back  with  a 
cry  before  the  dripping,  half-naked  figure  that  reeled 
againsc  the  doorpost. 

"Dick!" 

"  Hush!     Is  he  awake  yet?" 

"No— but,  Dick!" 

"Keep  still."  He  staggered,  caught  at  the  handle  of 
the  door,  and  motioned  to  the  Old  Man.  "  Thar's  suthin' 
in  my  pack  yer  for  Johnny.     Take  it  off.     I  can't." 

The  Old  Man  unstrapped  the  pack  and  laid  it  before 
the  exhausted  man. 


Exjiression  in  nature  iss/>ontiineous:  it  is  the  result  o/  an  unconscious  proc- 
ess in  tlie  man  as  a  creature.  E.iprcssion  in  art  is  deliberate.,  and  there  is 
a  conscious  command  o/  natural  resources  in  the  man  as  a  creative  being. — 
Steele  Mackave. 


176         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

'*  Open  it,  quick!" 

It  contained  only  a  few  poor  toys — cheap  and  bar- 
baric enough,  goodness  knows,  but  bright  with  paint 
and  tinsel.  One  of  them  was  broken,  another  was 
ruined  by  water,  and  on  the  third  there  was  a  spot. 

"  It  don't  look  like  much,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Dick, 
ruefully.  "  But  it's  the  best  we  could  do.  Take  'em, 
Old  Man,  and  put  'em  in  his  stocking,  and  tell  him — 
tell  him,  you  know — hold  me.  Old  Man — "  The  Old 
Man  caught  his  sinking  figure.  "  Tell  him,"  said  Dick, 
with  a  weak  little  laugh,  "  tell  him  Sandy  Claus  has 
come,"  and  fell  fainting  on  the  threshold. 


THE  SCHOOL-MA'AM'S 
COURTING. 


Florence  E.  Pyatt. 


^■y  HEN  MARY  ANN   DOLLINGER  got  the  skule 

daown  thar  on  Injun  Bay 
I   was  glad,  fer  I    like  ter  see  a  gal  m.akin'  her  honest 

way. 
I  heerd  some  talk  in  the  village  abaout  her  flyin'  high. 
Tew  high  fer  busy  farmer  folks  with  chores  ter  dew  ter 

fly. 
But  I  paid  no  sorter  attention  ter  all  the  talk  ontell 
She  come  in  her  reg'lar  boardin'  raound  ter  visit  with 

us  a  spell. 
My  Jake  an'  her  had  been  cronies  ever  since  they  could 

walk. 


Accent  is  the  modulation  of  the  soul. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  177 

All'  it  tuk   mc   aback  tcr  hear  her  kerrectin'  him  in  liis 
talk. 

Jake  ain't  no  liantl  at  grammar,  though  he  hain't  his  beat 

for  work; 
But   I  sez   ter  myself,  "  Look  out,  my  gal,  yer  a-foolin' 

with  a  Turk!" 
Jake  bore  it  wonderful  patient,  an'  said  in  a  mournful 

way, 
He  p'sumed  he  was  behindhand  with  the  doin's  at  Injun 

Bay. 
I    remember   once  he  was  askin'  for  some  o'  my  Injun 

buns. 
An'  she  said    he  should   alius   say,   "  them   air,"  stid   o' 

"  them  is"  the  ones. 
Wal,  Mary  Ann  kep'  at  him  stiddy  mornin'  an'  evenin' 

long, 
Tell  he  dassent  open  his  mouth  for  fear  o'  talkin'  wrong. 

One  day  I  was  pickin'  currants  daown  by  the  old  quince 

tree, 
When  I   heerd  Jake's  voice  a-sayin':  "  Be  ye  willin'  ter 

marry  me?" 
An'  Mary  Ann  kerrectin',  "  'Air  ye  willin',  yeou  sh'd  say." 
Our  Jake  he  put  his  foot  daown  in  a  plum,  decided  way, 
"No  wimmen-folks  is  a-goin'  ter  be  re-arrangin'  me. 
Hereafter  I  says  '  craps,'  *  them  is,' '  I  calk'late,'  an' '  I  be.' 
Ef  folks  don't  like  my  talk  they  needn't  hark  ter  what  I 

say; 
Bu-t  I  ain'  a-goin'  to  take  no  sass  from  folks  from  Injun 

Bay. 
I  ask  you  free  an'  final:     Be  ye  goin'  ter  marry  me?" 
An'  Mary  Ann  sez,  tremblin',  yet  anxious-like,  "  I  be." 


Gesture  is  inevitably  synthetic^  and  coiiseqitetitly  harmonic:  /or  harmony 
is  but  another  name  for  synthesis. — Delaumosne. 


178         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

A  WIFE'S  LAMENT. 


Will  H.  Cadmus. 


IVT  O!   there  ain't  no  use  of  talkin', 

Zeb  is  gettin'  most  too  old 
To  be  changin'  for  the  better, 

So  I  seldom  fret  or  scold; 
But  it  sometimes  is  provokin', 

An'  I  very  often  wish 
That  he'd  give  up  his  hobby, 

Always  hankerin'  to  fish. 

I've  polished  on  the  cookin'-stove 

Till  you  could  see  3'Our  face, 
An'  worked  around  from  morn  till  night 

To  tidy  up  the  place. 
I  sometimes  sweep,  an'  dust,  an'  scrub, 

Until,  I  will  be  bound, 
You  cannot  find  a  cleaner  house 

For  many  miles  around. 

Zeb  tracks  in  with  his  muddy  boots 

Upon  the  kitchen  floor, 
Until  I  feel  it  ain't  no  use 

A-cleanin'  any  more. 
He'll  bring  along  a  string  of  fish. 

An'  there  won't  be  no  peace 
Until  I've  fried  'em,  an'  the  stove 

Gets  spattered  up  with  grease. 

On  Saturday,  he'll  set  at  night, 
Along  some  muddy  brook. 


We  should  not pre-occupy  the  audience  with  our  own  personality.     There  is 
no  true,  simple,  or  expressive  work  "without  seiy-abnegation. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  179 

An'  wait  until  some  worthless  fish 

May  come  an'  find  his  hook. 
Then,  like  enough,  on  Sunday  morn 

He'll  say,  "Why,  there's  the  bell! 
I  won't  go  with  you,  Betsy  Ann, 

I  ain't  a-feelin'  well." 

If  he  gets  called  away  from  home, 

He'll  take  a  piece  of  twine. 
With  bait  an'  hooks  to  well  improve 

The  odds  an'  ends  of  time. 
At  night,  I've  scolded  'till  I  knew 

'Twas  useless  any  more. 
For  all  the  answer  I  would  get 

Would  likely  be  a  snore. 

I've  sometimes  wanted  somethin'  done, 

Perhaps  to  mend  a  chair. 
Or  dig  around  my  flower-beds, 

He'd  claim  "  no  time  to  spare." 
But  then  I've  noticed  many  times. 

The  task  is  not  too  great 
To  dig  a  patch  that's  twice  as  big 

If  huntin'  after  bait. 

Last  spring  he  said  he'd  go  to  York 

To  see  the  grand  display; 
He  thought  that  he  could  spare  the  time, 

He'd  only  go  one  day. 
I  didn't  see  just  how  he  could, 

The  crops  were  needin'  care, 
But  then  I  didn't  find  no  fauU, 

The  neisrhbors  would  be  there. 


The  teacher^s  work  is  complete  when  the  pupil  has  been  trained  to  the  per- 
fect control  0/  the  instrutnents  through  which  thejoul  can  be  expressed. — 
Genevieve  Stebuins. 


i8o 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


I  claimed  the  military  show 

Was  better  than  the  rest. 
He  said  that  he  was  satisfied 

The  naval  would  be  best. 
But  afterward  I  found  he  sat 

From  nine  till  six  o'clock, 
A  drop-line  down  between  his  knees, 

A-fishin'  from  the  dock! 

He  lately  bought  a  fishin'-pole, 

A  fancy  kind  of  thing, 
A  little  wheel  upon  the  stick 

For  windin'  up  the  string. 
Sez  I  to  him,  "  It  seems  to  me 

You'll  never  have  no  sense; 
You  know  that  we  cannot  afford 

To  have  no  such  expense." 

Sez  I,  "You  know  your  overcoat 

Is  very  far  from  new; 
We  need  new  chairs  and  carpet, 

An'  the  church  pew  rent  is  due." 
He  said  I'd  claimed  the  meat  he  bought, 

I'd  very  often  found. 
Was  poor  stuff,  sold  for  tenderloins. 

At  twenty  cents  a  pound. 

"An'  now,"  sez  he,  "our  butcher  bills 

Will  probably  be  small; 
There's  fish  enough,"  with  his  new  rod 

He'd  maybe  catch  'em  all  ! 
You  should  have  seen  the  basketful 

That  he  brought  home  at  night — 


Beauty  is  based  on  three  conditions:  clearness,  integrity,  and  due  propor- 
tion.— Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  i8i 

The  flounders,  bass,  an'  bluefish,  too — 
My  goodness!     What  a  sight! 

He  said  he'd  had  a  jolly  time, 

An'  didn't  fail  to  say. 
The  bites  he'd  had  was  wonderful, 

The  best  ones  got  away! 
But,  later,  Van  Dutchoven's  wife, 

Claimed  Jake  Goosrobber  knew, 
Zeb  hadn't  caught  them  fish  at  all, 

He'd  bought  'em  of  Jim  Drew! 


JACK  HALL'S  BOAT-RACE. 


Robert  Grant.     Arranged  hy  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


TT  was  an  established  custom  on  the  annual  exhibition 
day  at  Utopia  School  for  the   best  single  scullers  to 
demonstrate  by  a  two-mile  contest  which  could  pull  the 
fastest. 

Tom  Bonsall  was  the  acknowledged  crack  single 
sculler  in  the  school,  and  as  he  was  to  graduate  this 
year,  it  was  Jack  Hall's  last  chance  to  prove  himself  the 
superior.  Great  preparations  were  made  for  the  con- 
test. But  the  excitement  was  nothing  compared  with 
what  it  became  when  Dr.  Meredith,  the  principal,  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  competing  for  the  silver  cup 
himself.  The  report  ran  like  wildfire  through  the  school. 
"  Have  you  heard  the  news?"  everyone  asked  his  neigh- 
bor. **  The  doctor  is  going  in  for  the  single  sculls 
against  Bonsall  and  Hall.  He  hasn't  rowed  in  a  race 
^ + 

The  law  oy  evolution  in  expression    is:  first  the  eye,  then  the  /ace,  then  the 
head,  then  the  arms  and  hands,  and  last  the  body. — Steele  Mackayb. 


1 82         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

for  ever  so  long."  As  to  what  the  result  of  the  race 
would  be,  few  saw  room  to  doubt.  Neither  of  them  could 
hope  to  beat  the  doctor. 

The  appointed  day  dawned  bright  and  still.  The 
race  had  been  fixed  for  ten  o'clock.  The  lake  was  re- 
ported to  be  like  a  mirror,  and  the  day  unexceptionable 
from  an  oarsman's  point  of  view.  At  nine  o'clock  Jack 
emerged  in  his  boating-costume.  Every  boy  who  pos- 
sessed a  boat  was  out  in  it,  and  the  water  was  dotted 
with  every  variety  of  craft,  from  a  canoe  to  a  steam- 
launch.  The  stand,  which  had  been  erected  just  oppo- 
site to  the  finish,  was  crowded.  As  for  Jack,  he  was 
trembling  all  over,  and  could  feel  his  heart  going  like  a 
trip-hammer.  The  course  was  two  miles  in  all;  straight 
away  for  a  mile  to  a  flagged  buoy,  and  back  again  to 
another  flagged  buoy  abreast  of  the  boat-house. 

Jack  was  the  last  of  the  three  to  get  into  his  boat. 
He  paddled  a  few  rods  and  then  shot  off  at  a  comfort- 
able pace  up  the  lake,  followed  by  the  gaze  of  the  spec- 
tators eager  to  gauge  his  powers.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Tom  Bonsall  resting  on  his  oars  and  watching  him. 
Jack  pulled  steadily  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  taking  a 
last  glance  at  his  .equipment  to  make  sure  everything 
was  all  right.  He  had  scarcely  turned  to  come  back 
when  the  pistol  sounded,  and  by  the  time  he  reached 
the  starting-line  the  doctor  and  Tom  were  in  position. 
According  to  the  lots  drawn  that  morning,  Jack  was  to 
be  in  the  middle,  with  Tom  inside;  so  he  paddled  in  be- 
tween them. 

He  felt  almost  beside  himself  in  the  short  interval 
that  preceded  the  discharge,  and  his  throat  seemed 
parched. 

4- 


Beauty  is  to  the  Beautiful  what  the  individual  reason  is  to  the  divine  rea- 
son of  things.     It  is  one  ray  of  the  beautiftil. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  183 

Crack! 

The  three  pairs  of  blades  flashed  through  the  water 
at  the  same  moment,  and  neither  boat  seemed  to  gain 
any  decided  advantage  as  they  bounded  away  from  the 
buoy  amid  the  cheers  of  everybody. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  doctor!" 

"Hit  her  up,  Tom!" 

"  Bully  for  you.  Jack!" 

It  took  our  hero  some  minutes  to  get  his  head  clear 
enough  to  be  able  to  perceive  what  he  was  doing,  as 
compared  with  his  opponents.  He  was  conscious  of 
rowing  a  rather  quicker  and  more  jerky  stroke  than 
usual.  His  eyes  were  misty  and  his  throat  drier  than 
ever.  The  cheers  of  the  spectators  were  growing 
fainter,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  time  to  settle  down  to 
work.  He  made  a  gulp  and  looked  about  him.  On 
his  right  was  Tom  pulling  like  grim  death,  at  a  rate 
which  seemed  to  lift  his  boat  almost  out  of  the  water. 
The  stern  of  Tom's  shell  was  nearly  on  a  level  with  the 
back  sweep  of  his  own  oars,  which  showed  plainly  that 
Tom  had  not  far  from  half  a  length's  lead  on  him.  On 
the  other  side  was  the  doctor,  rowing  steadily  and 
smoothly  as  clock-work,  neck  and  neck  with  him. 

"  Softly  now,"  said  Jack  to  himself.  "This  is  too  fast 
company  for  me.  If  Tom  can  keep  this  racket  up  he'll 
get  there  first.  My  only  chance  is  to  let  up  a  bit."  Ac- 
cordingly he  lessened  the  number  of  strokes  to  the 
minute  by  making  each  of  them  longer  and  more  sweep- 
ing, with  the  immediate  result  that  he  felt  in  better 
shape,  and  that  Tom  had  gained  no  further  advantage 
on  him.  But  there  was  no  let  up  to  Tom.-  He  had  the 
lead  and  was  bent  on  keeping  it.  Not  a  sound  was 
+ 

We  never  really  understand  an  author's  meaning:  Every  one  is  free  to  in- 
terpret him  according  to  his  individual  instinct.  But  tue  must  inoiv  how  to 
justify  the  interpretation  by  ^«/'«>v.— Delaumosne. 


i84         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

audible  to  Jack  but  the  slight  plashing  of  the  oars  in 
the  water.  Over  his  shoulder  he  saw  Tom  struggling  on- 
ward; and  abreast  of  him,  pulling  with  apparently  no 
effort  and  watching  alertly  the  movements  of  his  rivals, 
could  be  seen  the  dangerous  doctor.  But  Jack  felt  calm 
now,  and  fresher  than  when  he  started.  The  doctor 
was  pulling  a  waiting  race;  he  was  an  old  hand,  and  had 
seen  many  a  race  lost  by  too  lively  a  pace  at  the  start. 

"Steady,"  reflects  Jack,  "don't  hit  her  up  too  lively." 
He  appreciates  the  doctor's  tactics,  and  is  not  going  to 
fall  into  the  trap  if  he  can  help  it,  even  though  Tom, 
spurred  on  by  swift  pursuit,  has  put  on  more  steam  and 
is  holding  his  own  bravely.  They  are  not  far  from  the 
flagged  buoy  now,  and  are  likely  to  pass  it  in  the  order 
in  which  they  are  at  present,  about  half  a  length  apart, 
and  Tom  has  the  inside  water. 

Tom  turns  first,  and  very  cleverly,  too,  close  to  the 
buoy  so  as  to  give  no  one  a  chance  to  cut  in,  and  starts 
for  home;  but  the  others  are  at  his  heels  and  right  after 
him.  Half  way,  and  Jack  is  still  as  fresh  as  ever.  He 
remembers  a  parting  caution  not  to  spurt  until  he  has 
to,  and  only  bends  strongly  and  firmly  to  his  accus- 
tomed stroke.  Ah,  there!  The  doctor  is  waking  up  at 
last,  and  is  putting  in  some  stronger  work.  One  thing 
is  certain  now;  Tom  will  have  to  row  faster  or  give  in. 
Jack  slightly  quickens  his  stroke,  and,  without  actually 
spurting,  bends  every  muscle.  Will  Tom  be  able  to 
quicken  his  pace?  He  does  quicken  it,  so  much  so  that 
he  is  rowing  desperately  fast  with  short,  lightning 
strokes,  which  come  so  rapidly  that  it  is  difficult  to  note 
the  interval  between  them.     Brilliant,  magnificent!     But 


Things  that  are  said  quietly  should  sing  themselves  in  the  utterance. — Del- 

SARTE. 


"Noboclv   asked   von.    sir."   she   said. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 


DELSAKTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  185 

Jack's  long,  steady  swing  is  holding,  and  pressing  into 
the  bargain. 

"Steady  now,"  murmurs  Jack  between  his  teeth.  He 
knows  from  Tom's  exertions  that  his  rival  is  spurting. 
A  terrible  moment  of  sustained  effort  follows,  at  the  end 
of  which  Tom  lashes  the  air  with  a  misplaced  stroke, 
the  water  splashes,  and  Jack's  shell  comes  on  a  level 
with  its  forerunner,  battles  with  it  for  twenty  yards  of 
struggling  agony  on  the  part  of  the  doomed  champion, 
and  leaps  to  the  front  just  in  time  to  meet  the  sweet 
music  of  the  prolonged,  triumphant  din  of  shouts  and 
cheers  sent  down  by  hundreds  of  voices.  Jack  is  ahead, 
and  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  left!  Tom  is  beaten.  And 
now  for  the  doctor.  Where  is  he  ?  The  nose  of  his  boat 
is  almost  on  a  line  with  Jack's  stern,  and  he  is  quicken- 
ing at  every  stroke. 

What  a  babel  of  cheers  and  exclamations  bursts  forth 
from  the  crowd  along  the  bank  and  on  the 'benches  of 
the  densely-packed  standi 

"Jack  Hall  is  ahead!  Hall!  Hall!  No,  he  isn't!  Hit 
her  up,  doctor!  Hurrah  for  Hall!  Hurrah  for  the 
doctor!  Tom,  where  are  you?  Bonsall!  Bonsall! 
H-A-L-L!  Hal  1-1-1!" 

The  tumult  is  maddening.  Can  it  be  possible  that 
Jack  Hall,  who  before  the  race  was  rated  lowest  of  the 
three,  is  going  to  break  the  school  record  and  beat  the 
doctor  in  one  and  the  same  breath?  It  looks  like  it,  if 
he  can  hold  his  own  for  two  hundred  yards  more.  But 
see,  the  doctor  is  spurting  with  a  vengeance — look! — 
look! — and  is  he  not  gaining,  too? 

"Doctor    Meredith    is    ahead!      No    he's    not — Hall's 


I  The  philosophy  o/  e.\f>ression  is  the  philosophy  of  manifestation.  In  its 
droaiiest  sense,  it  is  the  philosophy  o/the  in/inite  as  revealeii  in  the  uni-.'trse. 
In  its  restricted  sense,  it  is  the  philosophy  o/  man  as  revealeii  through  the  or- 

\ganism:  the  inner  essence  or  soul  manifesting  itself  through  the  outer  sub- 
stance  or  body. — Moses  True  Bkown. 

V + 


1 86         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

ahead!  Huzza!  hurrah!  Hall,  Hall,  hit  her  up,  Hall! 
Look  out,  Hall!  The  doctor  wins!  No  he  doesn't! 
Hall  wins!     Hurrah!     Jack,  where  are  you?" 

The  doctor  has  crept  up;  the  nose  of  his  shell  is  now 
well  beyond  Jack's  out-rigger,  and  he  is  speeding  like 
the  wind.  Jack  is  feeling  terribly  tired;  his  throat  that 
he  thought  parched  at  the  start  burns  as  if  it  were  on 
fire,  and  his  eyes  seem  ready  to  start  out  of  his  head. 
Jack  turns  his  head  and  sights  the  goal.  Not  more 
than  150  yards  left!  The  yells  and  cheers  are  setting 
his  blood  ablaze.  He  can  scarcely  see,  but  he  knows  he 
has  not  spurted  yet.  He  is  neck  and  neck  with  the 
doctor  now.  There  can  be  nothing  to  choose  between 
them.  **  The  doctor  wins!"  "Not  a  bit  of  it;  Hall 
wins!  Good  on  your  head.  Jack!  Keep  it  up,  doctor! 
Go  in,  Hall!" 

The  time  has  come  now,  Jack  knows,  to  put  in  any 
spurt  that  is  left  in  him.  Gripping  the  handles  of  his 
oars  like  a  vise,  and  shutting  his  eyes,  Jack  throws  all 
his  powers  into  one  grand  effort. 

"Hall!  Hall!  Hurrah!  Nobly  done,  Hall!  Hall 
wins!     Row,  doctor,  row!" 

The  doctor  is  rowing  with  all  his  might,  but  he  has 
not  counted  on  the  staying  powers  of  his  adversary.  If 
Jack  can  hold  out  for  half  a  dozen  strokes  more,  the 
victory  is  his. 

One. 

"Hall!  Hall!     Go  in,  doctor!" 

Two. 

"Three  cheers  for  Hall!     Hurrah!   hurrah!   hurrah!" 

Three. 

"Hurrah!     H-A-L-L!" 


A  moz'etnent  should  never  be  mixed  with  a  facial  tivist. — DelsaRTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  187 

Four. 

"Hall  wins!     Hall  wins!" 

Five. 

"Hurrah!  Huzza!  Hurrah!  Hall!  Hall!  Doctor! 
Doctor!" 

Six. 

Panting,  breathless,  and  bewildered  by  the  deafening 
cheers,  Jack  sees  tiic  flagged  buoy  shoot  past  his  oar- 
blade  and  knows  that  he  has  won  the  race  and  is  cham- 
pion of  Utopia. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE 
FLOWERS. 


S.  H.  M.  Byers. 


nPHERE'S  a  wedding  in  the  orchard,  dear,  I  know  it 

by  the  flowers; 
They're  wreathed  on  every  bough  and  branch,  or  falling 

down  in  showers. 
The  air  is  in  a  mist,  I  think,  and  scarce  knows  what  to 

be— 
Whether  all  fragrance,  clinging  close,  or  bird-song,  wild 

and  free. 

"It  is   six,"  the   swallows  twittered,  " and   you're  very 

late  in  rising — 
If  you  really  think  of  rising  on  this  lovely  morn  at  all — 
For  the  great  red  sun  is  peeping  over  wood  and  hill  and 

meadow, 
And  tlie  unmilked  cows  are  lowing  in  the  dimly-lighted 

stall." 


I    Articulation  is  the  arrest  or  i>ibration  o/  tone,  produced  by  the  pronuncia- 
tion oy consonants.— GE.j<E\-iii\K  Stecbins. 


1 88         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

"Oh,  ye  robins  and  ye  swallows,"  thought  I,  throwing 

back  the  lattice, 
"  Ye  are  noisy,  joyous  fellows,  and  you  waken  when  you 

will;" 
Then  1  saw  a  dainty  letter,  bound  in  ribbon-grass  and 

clover. 
That   the  swallows  had   left   swinging   by   the   narrow 

window-sill. 

Oh,  the   dainty,   dainty   letter,   on    an    orange    leaf,  or 

lemon, 
Signed,   "  Your  friend,   the  Queen  of    Roses,"  writ   in 

characters  of  dew: 
"You're  invited  to  the  garden,  there's  a  good  time  there 

at  seven. 
And  a  place  beside  the  apple-tree  has  been  reserved  for 

you. 

"  There'll   be    matings   there,  and   marriages,  of  every 

flower  and  blossom; 
Cross  the  brook  behind  the  arbor,  and  come  early,  if  you 

can." 
Oh,  my  thoughts  they  all  went  bounding,  and  my  heart 

leaped  in  my  bosom, 
"And  how  sweetly  she  composes,"  I  reflected  as  I  ran. 

There  she  sat,  the  queen  of  roses,  with  her  virgins  all 

about  her, 
While  the  lilacs  and  the  apple-blooms  seemed  waiting 

her  command. 
Oh,  how  lovely,  oh,  how  graciously  she  smiled  on  each 

new-comer; 
^ 4, 


If  you  cannot  conquer  your  defect,  make  it  beloved. — Delsarte. 


-T 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  189 

Oh,  liovv  sweetly  kissed  the  lilies  as  she  took  them  by 
the  hand. 

All  at  once  the  grass-rows  parted,  and  the  sweetest 
notes  were  sounded, 

There  was  music,  there  was  odor,  there  was  loving  in 
the  air; 

And  a  hundred  joyous  gallants,  robed  in  holiday  ap- 
parel. 

Danced  beneath  the  lilac  bushes  with  a  hundred  maid- 
ens fair. 

There  were  tulips,  proud   and   yellow,  with  their  great 

green  spears  beside  them; 
There  were  lilies  grandly  bowing  to  the  rose  queen  as 

they  came; 
There  were  daffodils  so  stately,  scenting   all  the  air  of 

heaven; 
Joyous  buds  and  sleeping  poppies,  with  their' banners 

all  aflame. 

There  were  pansies  robed  in  purple,  marching  o'er  the 

apple-blossoms. 
And  the  foxgloves  with  their  pages  tripped  coquettish- 

ly  along; 
And   the  violets  and   the   daisies,  in  their  bonnets  blue 

and  yellow. 
Joined  the  marching  and  parading  of  th'  innumerable 

throng. 

All   at  once  the   dandelion  blew   three   notes    upon  his 

trumpet: 
"  Choose  ye  partners  for  the  dancing,  gallant  knights 

and  ladies  fair;" 


The  rhythm  of  gesture  is  proportioital  to  the  mass  to  be  moved.      The  more  an 
I  or^an  is  restrained,  the  more  vehement  is  its  impulse. — Delaumosne. 


190         DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  the  honeysuckle  court'sied  to  the  young,  sweet- 
breathed  clematis, 

And  remarked  upon  the  sweetness  of  the  blossoms  in 
her  hair. 

"We're  the  tallest,"  said  the  tuberose  to  the  iris,  stand- 
ing nearest, 

"  And  suppose  that  now,  for  instance,  I  should  offer  you 
my  heart?" 

"  Oh,  how  sudden,"  cried  the  sly  thing;  "I  am  really 
quite  embarrassed — 

Unexpected,  but  pray  do  it,  just  to  give  the  rest  a 
start." 

Then  a  daisy  kissed  a  pansy,  with  its  jacket  brown  and 

yellow. 
And  the  crocus  led  a  thistle  to  a  seat  beside  the  rose; 
And   the   maybells  grouped   together,  close  beside  the 

lady-slipper. 
And  commented  on  the  beauty  and  the  splendor  of  her 

clothes. 

"Oh,  a  market  this  for  beauty,"  said  a  jasmine,  gently 

clinging 
To  the  strong  arm  of  an  orange,  as  a  glance  on  him  she 

threw; 
"Why,  you  scarcely  would  believe  it,  but  I've  had  this 

very  morning 
Twenty  offers,  and   declined   them  just  to  promenade 

with  you." 

Then  again  the  grass  it  parted,  and  the  sunshine  it  grew 
brighter, 


Let  your  attitude,  gesture,  aiid  /ace  foretell  what  you  would  make  felt.— 


-4. 


Dels  ARTE 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  191 

Till   it   seemed   as  if  the  curtains  of  high  heaven  were 

withdrawn, 
And   each  flower  and   bud  and    blossom    pressed  some 

fair  one  to  its  bosom, 
As  the  bannered  train  danced  gaily  'twixt  the  windrows 

on  the  lawn. 

Oh,  the  musk-rose  was  so   stately!  and   so  stately  was 

the  queen  rose! 
And  how  sweetly  smiled  she  on  me  as  she  whispered  in 

my  ear: 
"Come  again;    you  know  you're  welcome,  come  again, 

dear,  for  it  may  be 
That  our  baby  buds   and  blossoms   will  be  christened 

here  next  year." 


THE  OLD  CHURCH. 

H.  H.  Johnson. 

AX  rHAT!  tear  the  old  church  down,  you  say,  and 
''  *  build  a  modern  one. 

That  we  can  look  with  pride  upon  and  boast  of  when 
'tis  done  ? 

With  lots  of  little  rooms  below  for  festivals  and  fairs. 

And  one  big  room  for  preachin',  with  its  pews  and  easy- 
chairs? 

What's  wrong  about  the  dear  old  church  we've  wor- 
shipped in  so  long? 

The  walls  are  good,  the  clapboards  tight,  the  timbers 
sound  and  strong; 


Expression  in  nature  /lows  /ro»i  the  impulses  of  natural  passion.  Expres- 
sion in  art  implies  a  mastery  of  the  primary  impulses  of  natural  passion  by 
that  rational  and  moral  substance  in  the  iniiividual  which  distinguishes  the 
man  from  the  beast  as  a  supernatural  entity. — Steele  Mackaye. 

4. — — 4« 


192         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

I'll  own  the  roof  is   leakin'  some,  but  that  can  be  made 

ri^ht, 
A  shingle  stuck   in   here  and  there  will  make  the  old 

roof  tight. 

You  want  to  build  a  stylish  church.     I  think  I  know  your 

views; 
And  then  when  you  have  got  it  built,  you'll  rent  or  sell 

the  pews. 
And   poor  folks  that  haint  got  the  cash  to  pay  for  sit- 

tin'  room. 
Must  take  their  preachin'  standin'  up,  or  else  remain  at 

home. 

I  tell  you,  brethren,  that  old  church  seems  like  a  life- 
long friend; 

Sweet  memories  are  clusterin'  there  will  last  till  life 
shall  end. 

Each  timber,  joist,  and  board  and  nail  seems  speakin' 
with  a  tongue, 

And  tellin'  of  the  good  done  here  since  you  and  I  were 
young. 

Beside  that  dear  old  altar  there,  just  fifty  years  to-day, 
I  knelt  and  begged  for  pardon,  and  Christ  washed  my 

sins  away; 
And  though  old  Time  has  thinned  my  hair,  and  bleached 

it  white  as  snow, 
That  altar  is  as  dear  to  me  as  fifty  years  ago. 

The  sermons  that  we've  listened  to  from  holy  men  of 

God, 
•J. — 4. 

I  T 

One  cannot  be  too  careful  of  his  articulation.     The  initial  consonant  should 
be  articulated  distinctly:  the  spirit  of  the  word  is  contained  in  //.— Delsarte. 

^ i 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  19,^ 

Whose  bodies   now  are  lyin'  cold  beneath  the  church- 
yard sod, 
Seem  ringin'  in  my  ears  to-day,  and  full  of  gospel  truth. 
As  when  I  listened  to  them  in  the  merry  days  of  youth. 

I  seem  to  hear  the  preacher's  voice  say,  "  Brethren,  let 

us  pray," 
And   all   the  congregation   kneel   in   the   old-fashioned 

way. 
I    seem    to    hear  the    thrillin'    shouts   of   "  Glory"   and 

"  Amen" 
Respondin'  from  the  people's  hearts  and  echoin'  again. 

I  seem  to  hear  those  old-time  hymns  we  all  so  loved  to 
sing, 

That  used  to  swell  from  ev'ry  heart,  and  make  the  old 
church  ring. 

There's  one  now  ringin'  in  my  ears:  "  Let  angels  pros- 
trate fall 

Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem  and  crown  Him  Lord  of 
all!" 

'Twould  seem  too  much  like  sacrilege  to  tear  that  altar 

down; 
I'm  'fraid  God  wouldn't  bless  the  deed,  but  rather  on  it 

frown. 
No,  brethren,  not  a  dollar   will   you   get   from  my  old 

hand! 
I'd  rather  give  five  hundred  more  and  let  the  old  church 

stand! 

So,  I  beg  you,  let  the  old  church  stand;  and  when  this 
old,  gray  head 


The  teacher  is  advised  to  train  the  voice  at  the  same  time  with  the  body, 
training  both  as  an  instrument. — Genevievp  Stebimns. 


194        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

Shall  lie  beneath  the  flowers  in  the  city  of  the  dead, 
Then  you  can  tear  the  old  church  down  and  build  one 

new  and  grand; 
But   while   I   live,  oh,  heed   my  prayer,  and  let  the  old 

church  stand. 


CANDOR. 


H.    C.    BUNNER, 


"T    KNOW  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she  said, 
And  she  stood  up,  looking  uncommonly  tall ; 
"  You  are  going  to  speak  of  the  hectic  fall. 
And  say  you're  sorry  the  summer's  dead. 

And  no  other  summer  was  like  it,  you  know, 
And  can  I  imagine  what  made  it  so  ? 
Now,  aren't  you,  honestly  ?"     "  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she  said  ; 

"You  are  going  to  ask  if  I  forget 

That  day  in  June  when  the  woods  were  wet. 
And  you  carried  me  " — here  she  dropped  her  head — 

"Over  the  creek  ;  you  are  going  to  say. 

Do  I  remember  that  horrid  day  ? 
Now  aren't  you,  honestly  ?"     "Yes,"  I  said, 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she  said  ; 
"  You  are  going  to  say  that  since  that  time 
You  have  rather  tended  to  run  to  rh)'me. 

And  " — her  clear  glance  fell  and  her  cheek  grew  red — 


speech  is  e.rternal,  andvisiile  thought  is  the  ambassadress  of  the  intellect.- 

Delsakte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         195 

"  And  have  I  noticed  your  tone  was  queer  ? 
Why,  everybody  has  seen  it  here  ! 
Now,  aren't  you,  honestly?"     "  Yes,  "  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  I  said; 

"You're  going  to  say  you've  been  much  annoyed, 
And  I'm  short  of  tact — you  will  say  devoid — 

And  I'm  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  call  me  Ted, 
And  I  bear  abuse  like  a  dear  old  Iamb, 
And  you'll  have  me,  anyway,  just  as  I  am. 

Now,  aren't  you,  honestly  ?"     "Ye-es,"  she  said. 


A  BOYS  CONCLUSION. 

Ci^HE  wuz  a  old  maid.  Aunt  Sue  wuz; 

She  never  had  any  little  boys 
Er  girls,  like  mos'  of  women  does. 

I  guess  she  didn't  like  the  noise 
And  bother  'at  a  baby  brings, 

And  so  God  didn't  send  her  none. 
But  let  'em  stay  and  wear  their  wings. 

I  bet  they  have  a  sight  of  fun! 
I've  got  a  baby  brother  there, 

And  he's  got  wings,  and,  if  I'm  good, 
I'm  goin'  to  die  and  have  a  pair 

Some  time,  'cause  mamma  said  I  should. 

When  Aunt  Sue  wuz  a  girl,  ma  said, 

She  had  a  beau,  like  Sister  Bess. 
He  went  to  the  war  and  come  back  dead. 

And  that's  all  'at  saved  hcr^  I  guess; 

'Cause,  if  he  hadn't  lost  his  life, 

« _^ — — 1 

Art  proposes  three  things:  to  viove,  to  interest,  to  persuade  by  unity  of  in- 
flection and  gesture.  One  effect  iniist  not  destroy  another.  Divergence  con- 
fuses the  audience,  and  leaves  no  time  for  sentiment. — Delaumosnb. 


196          DELS  ARTE  RECUSATION  BOOK. 

He  would  'a'  come  back  after  her; 
And  she'd  'a'  had  to  be  his  wife 

And  go  with  him  jist  everywhere  ! 
I'd  think  she'd  'a'  been  awful  glad 

Because  he  didn't  come,  but  died; 
But  stid  of  that  it  made  her  sad, 

And  mamma  said  she  went  and  cried. 

And,  mamma  said,  a  long,  lortg  while 

After  her  beau  wuz  dead.  Aunt  Sue 
Jist  moped  around  and  wouldn't  smile. 

Until  they  thought  that  she'd  die,  too. 
But  stid  of  dyin'  she  kep'  on. 

And  turned  out  to  be  a  old  maid; 
Jist  'cause  the  other  beau  wuz  gone. 

She  wouldn't  have  no  more,  she  said. 
I  pity  Aunt  Sue;  but  I  can't 

Help  be  glad  'at  her  beau  died, 
'Cause  I  wouldn't  have  a  old  maid  aunt 

If  she'd  'a'  been  that  feller's  bride. 

I  like  Aunt  Sue;   her  ginger  cakes 

Are  better'n  what  we  have  at  home, 
They're  sweeter  'n  them  my  mamma  makes. 

And  she  mos'  always  brings  me  some. 
And  she's  got  lots  of  books  and  cats. 

And  a  little  dog,  and  she  don't  care 
How  much  I  play  with  them,  and  that's 

Wliy  I  like  so  to  go  down  there. 
Old  maids  are  nice.     When  I'm  a  man, 

If  I  don't  live  a  single  life. 
But  marry  some  one,  it's  my  plan 

To  have  a  old  maid  for  my  wife. 
« 4. 

A  part  of  the  whole  cannot  lie   thoroughly  appreciated  by  any  one  ignorant 
o/the  whole. — Delsarte. 

T*— — — — ~ — ' T* 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         197 

A'  ABOOT  IT. 


William  Lyle. 


"/^  MARY,  will  you  gang  wi'  me, 

^-^^  An'  mak'  my  hame  a  heeven  ? 
I'll  licht  yer  nights,  an'  bless  yer  days, 

Wi'  love  as  lang's  I'm  leaven." 
"Toots,  laddie,  dinna  waste  yer  win' — 

Its  waur  than  wasted  speakin'; 
Ye  hae  but  ane  heart  at  the  best, 
-    An'  I'm  no'  her  it's  seekin'." 

"  Ah,  Mary,  I  had  ance  a  heart, 

But  I  hae  ane  nae  langer; 
Yer  een  hae  wiled  it  frae  my  breest, 

An'  aye  the  spell  grows  stranger." 
"  Ah,  havers.  Tarn,  ye  ken  fu'  weel, 

Noo,  whaur  were  ye'  a  roamin' 
Yestreen?    Ye  followed  Maggie  Rae 

Adoon  the  glen  at  gloamin'." 

"  Mary,  I  thacht  it  was  yersel', 

But  ne'er  a  word  was  spoken; 
The  glen  was  dark  without  your  smile. 

An'  I  cam'  hame  heart-broken." 
"Weel,  maybe,  Tam,  ye  were  mista'en, 

But  I'll  tak'  leave  to  doot  it; 
It  seems  ye  had  to  kiss  lang  Meg 

To  find  oot  a'  aboot  it  !" 


In  change  0/ inflection^  the   voice  should  leap  from   one   inflection   to   the\ 
other,  not  slide;  otherwise  the  change  produces  a  sing-song.— Genkvieve  Stkb- 

BINS. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BGQK. 

LORD  CLIVE. 


Robert  Browning.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


T    AND  CLIVE   were  friends — and  why  not?  power  is 

power,  my  boy,  and  still 
Marks  a  man, — God's  gift  magnific,  exercised  for  good 

or  ill. 
We  were  friends  then,  Clive  and  I;  so,  when  the  clouds, 

about  the  orb 
Late  supreme,  encroaching  slowly,  surely,  threatened  to 

absorb 
Ray  by  ray  its  noontide  brilliance, — friendship   might, 

with  steadier  eye  5 

Drawing  near,  bear  what  had  burned  else,  now  no  blaze, 

all  majesty. 

Too  much  bee's-wing  floats  my  figure?  Well,  suppose 
a  castle's  new: 

None  presume  to  climb  its  ramparts,  none  find  foothold 
sure  for  shoe 

'Twixt  those  squares  and  squares  of  granite  plating  the 
impervious. pile 

As  his  scale-mail's  warty  iron  cuirasses  a  crocodile.     lo 

Such  a  castle  seldom  tumbles  by  sheer  stress  of  can- 
nonade: 

'Tis  when  foes  are  foiled  and  fighting's  finished  thaf 
vile  rains  invade, 

Grass  o'ergrows,  o'ergrows  till  night-birds,  congregat- 
ing, find  no  holes 

Fit  to  build  in  like  the  topmost  sockets  made  for  ban- 
ner-poles. 


Dynamic  "wealth  depends  upon  the  number  of  bodily  articulations  brought 
into  play:  the  fe-wer  articulations  an  actor  uses,  the  more  closely  he  approaches 
to  the pujipet. — Delsarte. 

' * 


I)  ELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         199 

So  Clive  crumbled  slow  at  London,  crashed  at  last.  A 
week  before,  15 

Dining  with  him, — after  trying  churchyard-chat  of  days 
of  yore, — 

As  I  saw  his  head  sink  heavy,  guessed  the  soul's  extin- 
guishment 

By  the  glazing  eyeball,  noticed  how  the  furtive  fingers 
went 

Where  a  drug-box  skulked  behind  the  honest  liquor, — 

"  One  more  throw 
Try   for  Clive!"  thought   I;  "let's  venture  some  good 

rattling  question!"     So —  20 

"  Come,  Clive,  tell  us," — out  I  blurted, — "  what  to  tell  in 

turn,  years  hence. 
Come!  what  moment  of  the  minute,  what  speck-centre 

in  the  wide 
Circle  of  the  action  saw  your  mortal  fairly  deified? 
(Let   alone   that   filthy  sleep-stuff;    swallow    bold    this 

wholesome  port!) 
If  a  friend  has  leave  to  question, — when  were  you  most 

brave,  in  short?"  25 

Up  he  arched  his  brows  o'  the  instant,  formidably  Clive 

again. 
"  When  was  I  most  brave?     I'd  answer,  were  the  instance 

half  as  plain 
As  another  instance  that's  a  brain-lodged  crystal — curse 

it! — here 
Freezing  when  my  memory  touches — ugh! — the  time  I 

felt  almost  fear.  29 

Ugh!  I  cannot  say  for  certain  if  I  showed  fear — anyhow, 


Pantomintt'  is  oj"  two  distinct  sf<ccits:  elli/>tic  f-antotninie^  which  is  the  mani- 
festation by  the  outer  action  of  the  body  of  the  inward  life  of  the  body:  and 
descriptive  f>antoinime,  which  is  the  illustration  by  the  motion  o/ the  body  of 
some  outer  part  or  <jt-//ii«.  — Steele  Mackaye. 


200        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Fear  I  felt,  and,  very  likely,  shuddered,  since    I    shiver 


now. 

Down  his  brows  dropped.  On  the  table  painfully  he 
pored,  as  thougli 

Tracing  in  the  stains  and  streaks  there,  thoughts  en- 
crusted long  ago. 

When  he  spoke  'twas  like  a  lawyer  reading  word  by 
word  some  will. 

Some  blind  jungle  of  a  statement, — beating  on  and  on 
until  ^  35 

Out  there  leaps  fierce  life  to  fight  with. 

**  This  fell  in  my  factor-days. 

Desk-drudge,  slaving  at  St.  David's,  one  must  game,  or 
drink,  or  craze. 

I  chose  gaming;  and — because  your  high-flown  game- 
sters hardly  take 

Umbrage  at  a  factor's  elbow  if  the  factor  pays  his 
stake — 

I  was  winked  at  in  a  circle  where  the  company  was 
choice,  40 

Captain  This  and  Major  That,  men  high  of  color,  loud 
of  voice, 

"Yet  indulgent,  condescending  to  the  modest  juvenile. 
Who  not  merely  risked  but  lost  his  hard-earned  guineas 

with  a  smile. 
Down  I  sat  to  cards,  one  evening,  had  for  my  antagonist 
Somebody  whose  name's  a  secret — 5'ou'll   know  why — 

so,  if  you  list,  45 

Call  him  Cock  o'  the  walk,  my  scarlet  son  of  Mars  from 

head  to  heel! 
4. . 

Conscious  menace — that  of  a  master  to  his  subordinate — is  expressed  by  a 
movemeni  0/ the  head  carried  from  above  dowmvard.  Impotent  menace  re- 
quires the  head  to  be  moved  from  below  upward.  —  Delsarte. 


"Wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 


"A  powder-box, 
I'll   take  a  little  look   within." 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  201 

Play  commenced;  and  whether  Cocky  fancied  that  a 
clerk  must  feel 

**  Quite  sufficient  honor  came  of  bending  over  one  green 

baize, 
I  the  scribe  with  him  the  warrior,  guessed  no   penman 

dared  to  raise 
Shadow  of  objection  should  the  honor  stay  but  playing 

end  50 

More  or  less  abruptly, — whether  disinclined  he  grew  to 

spend, 
Practice  strictly  scientific  on  a  booby  born  to  stare 
At — not  ask  of — lace  and  ruffles  if  the   hand   they  hide 

plays  fair.  , 

"  Anyhow,  I  marked  a  movement  when  he  bade  me  '  Cut!' 
I  rose. 

'  Such  the  new  manoeuvre,  captain?  I'm  a  novice;  knowl- 
edge grows.  55 

What,  you  force  a  card,  you  cheat,  sir?'  Never  did  a 
thunderclap 

Cause  emotion,  startle  Thyrsis  locked  with  Chloe  in  his 
lap. 

As  my  word  and  gesture  (down  I  flung  my  cards  to  join 
the  pack) 

Fired  the  man  of  arms,  whose  visage,  simply  red  before, 
turned  black. 

"When  he  heard  his  voice,  he  stammered,  'That  ex- 
pression once  again.'  60 

'Well,  you  forced  a  card  and  cheated!'  'Possibly  a 
factor's  brain, 


The  lixiv  0/  expansion  of  motion  of  action  existing  in  mental  expression  is 
in  proportion  to  the  uncontrolled  force  of  the  motion. — Steele  Mackave. 


202  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Busied  with  his  all-important  balance  of  accounts,  may 
deem 

Weighing  words,  superfluous  trouble;  cheat  to  clerkly 
ears  may  seem 

Just  the  joke  for  friends  to  venture:  but  we  are  not 
friends,  you  see! 

When  a  gentleman  is  joked  with, — if  he's  good  at  re- 
partee—  65 

"  '  He  rejoins  as  I  do — Sirrah,  on  your  knees,  withdraw 

in  full! 
Beg   my    pardon,  or   be   sure  a    kindly  bullet  through 

your  skull 
Lets  in  light  and  teaches  manners  to  what  brain  it  finds! 

Choose  quick — 
Have  your  life  snuffed  out  or,  kneeling,  pray  me  trim 

yon  candlewick!  ' 
*  Well,  you  cheated!  '  70 

Then  outbroke  a  howl  from  all  the  friends   around. 
To  their  feet  sprang  men  in  fury,  fists  were  clinched  and 

teeth  were  ground.. 
'  End  it!  no  time  like  the  present!     Captain,  yours  were 

our  disgrace! ' 

"  Up  we  stood  accordingly. 

As  they  handed  me  the  weapon,  such  was  my  soul's 
thirst  to  try 

Then  and  there  conclusions  with  this  bulh^,  tread  on 
and  stamp  out  75 

Every  spark  of  his  existence,  that — crept  close  to,  curled 
about 

By  that  toying,  tempting,  teasing  fool-forefinger's  mid- 
dle joint, — 


The  7H0uth  plays  a  part  in  everything  ez'il  which  ive  luottld  express,  by  a 
grimace  which  consists  of  protr tiding  the  lips  and  lowering  the  corners.  If 
the  grimace  translates  a  concentric  sentiment,  it  should  be  made  by  compress- 
ing the  lips. — Delsartk. 

' "i- 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  203 

Don't  you  guess? — the  trigger  yielded.    Gone  my  chance! 

and  at  the  point 
Of  such  prime  success,  moreover;  scarce  an  inch  above 

his  head 
Went   my  ball   to   hit   the   wainscot.     He  was  living,  I 

was  dead.  80 

"  Up  he  marched  in  flaming  triumph — 'twas  his  right, 
mind! — up,  within 

Just  an  arm's  length.  '  Now,  my  clerkling,'  chuckled 
Cocky  with  a  grin 

As  the  levelled  piece  quite  touched  me,  '  now,  Sir  Count- 
ing-house, repeat 

That  expression  which  I  told  you  proved  bad  manners! 
Did  I  cheat?' 

'Cheat  you  did,  you  knew  you  cheated,  and,  this  mo- 
ment, know  as  well.  85 

As  for  me,  my  homely  breeding  bids  you — fire  and  go 
to  hell!  ' 

"  Twice  the  muzzle  touched  my  forehead.     Heavy  barrel, 

flurried  wrist. 
Either  spoils  a  steady  lifting.     Thrice:  then,  '  Laugh  at 

hell  who  list, 
I  can't!    God's  no  fable,  either.     Did  this  boy's  eye  wink 

once?     No! 
There's  no  standing  him    and  hell    and  God   all   three 

against  me, — so,  90 

I  did  cheat!  ' 

And  down  he  threw  the  pistol,  out  rushed — 

by  the  door 
Possibly,  but,  as  for  knowledge  if  by  chimney,  roof,  or 

floor. 


Habit  is  a  second  nature;  in  /"act,  a  habitual  moz'ement  fashions  the  mate- 
rial and  physical  being  in  such  a  manner  as  to  create  a  type  not  inborn,  and 
■which  is  named  habitual. — Delau.mosne. 


204         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

He  effected  disappearance — I'll   engage  no   glance  was 

sent 
That  way  by  a  single  starer,  such  a  blank  astonishment 
Swallowed  up  the  senses;  as  for  speaking — mute  they 

stood  as  mice  95 

"  Mute  not  long,  though!     Such  reaction,  such  a  hubbub 

in  a  trice! 
*  Rogue  and  rascal!     Who'd   have  thought   it?     What's 

to  be  expected  next? 
Drum  and  fife  must  play  the  Rogue's  March,  rank  and 

file  be  free  to  speed, 
Tardy  marching  on  the  rogue's   part  by  appliance    in 

the  rear — 
Kicks  administered  shall  right  this  wronged  civilian, — 

never  fear.'  100 

"'Gentlemen,  attention — pray!     First,  one  word! 
Some  five  minutes   since  my   life  lay — as  you  all   saw, 

gentlemen, 
At  the  mercy  of  your  friend  there.     Not  a  single  voice 

was  raised 
In  arrest  of  judgment,  not  one  tongue — before  my  pow- 
der blazed — 
Ventured,  "  Can  it  be  the   youngster  blundered,  really 

seemed  to  mark  105 

Some    irregular   proceeding?     Look    into    the    case,  at 

least!  " 
Who  dared  interpose  between  the  altar's  victim  and  the 

priest? 
Yet  he  spared  me!     You  eleven!  Whosoever,  all  or  each, 
Utters — to  the  disadvantage  of  the  man  who  spared  me — 

speech — 


Science  receives,  art  gives.  By  science  man  assimilates  the  world;  by  art  he 
assimilates  himself  to  the  zvorld.  Assimilation  isto  science  what  incarnation 
is  to  art. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  205 

To  his  face,  beliind  liis  hack,— that  speaker  has  to  do 
with  me;  no 

Me  who  promise,  if  positions  change  and  mine  the 
chance  shoukl  be. 

Not  to  imitate  your  friend  and  waive  advantage! ' 

"  Well,  you've  my  story,  there's  your  instance:  fear  I 

did,  you  see!" 
"  Fear — I  wish  I  could  detect  there;  courage  fronts  me, 

plain  enough, 
Call  it  desperation,  madness,  never  mind!  for  here's  in 

rough —  115 

Why,  had  mine  been   such   a  trial,  fear  had   overcome 

disgrace. 
True,   disgrace   were  hard  to  bear;  but   no   such   rush 

against  God's  face!  " 


ANALYSIS. 

F.    TOWNSEND    SOUTinVICK. 

No  poet  needs  more  the  artist  to  stand  as  interpreter 
between  him  and  the  average  individual  than  does 
Browning.  The  closet  reading  of  Browning  is  some- 
what difficult;  his  sentences  are  not  always  well  framed 
for  the  eye,  the  words  do  not  adjust  themselves  natu- 
rally to  the  focus  of  the  ordinary  understanding,  the 
thread  of  his  thought  gets  tangled  in  the  meshes  of  his 
imagination,  until  we  almost  lose  it  altogether. 

This  is  owing  to  two  quite  opposite  qualities  in  his 
work  that  it  seems  paradoxical  to  name  together:  dif- 
fuseness  and  compression.  He  crowds  his  pages  with  a 
wealth  of  vivifying,  reinforcing  ideas  branching  from 
and  adorning  the  main  subject,  side  lights,  so  to  speak, 
thrown  upon  the  central  motif.     He  must   flash   every 


The  head  and  hand  cannot  act  simultaneously  to  express  the  savte  senti- 
tnent.  One  could  not  say '■'' no"  with  hvad  and  hands  at  the  same  time.  The 
head  commands  and  precedes  the  movement  of  the  hand. — Delaumosne. 


2o6         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

facet  of  his  jewelled  thought  toward  us  until  we  have 
noted  each  scintillation  of  the  brilliancy  within.  At  the 
same  time,  he  compresses  the  expression  of  each  of  these 
ideas  until  his  lines  are  fairly  packed  with  ellipses,  so 
that  the  superficial  reader  is  fatigued,  at  first,  by  the 
effort  necessary  to  dig  out  the  meaning  of  a  sentence, 
and,  afterward,  by  the  stress  'of  sustained  thought  re- 
quired to  follow  the  poet  through  group  after  group  of 
such  compact  expressions  t.o  the  final  elucidation  of  his 
meaning — the  net  result  of  it  all.  Much  of  Browning's 
obscurity  arises,  like  the  imperfect  expression  of  some 
bright  stutterer,  not  from  incapacity,  but  from  the  too 
rapid  crowding  of  thoughts  upon  expression. 

The  artist  who  would  interpret  this  master — and  none 
but  an  artist  is  equal  to  his  more  difficult  moods — has 
resources  invocaland  pantomimic  expression  that  stand 
him  in  good  stead  in  his  task.  To  such,  the  few  hints  I 
am  able  to  give  will  doubtless  be  superfluous.  To  many 
students,  however,  who  are  aiming  at  something  higher 
than  the  ephemeral  trash  of  the  day,  they  may  be  of 
service  as  pointing  out  a  method  of  getting  at  the  mean- 
ing and  interpretation  of  one  of  the  greatest  masters  of 
dramatic  delineation. 

Robert,  Lord  Clive,  born  1725,  conqueror  of  India. 
His  most  celebrated  victory  was  at  Plassey,  where,  with 
3,000  men,  he  completely  routed  60,000  Bengalese.  He 
rose  from  a  subordinate  position  in  the  British  East 
India  Company.  His  character  was  by  no  means  spot- 
less, yet  his  genuine  greatness  raised  him  high  in  the 
estimation  of  his  contemporaries.  His  later  years  were 
passed  in  England  in  ill  health  and  broken  spirits. 
Finally,  in  1774,  he  ended  his  own  life.  The  incident 
here  related  has,  we  are  told,  the  authority  of  Macaulay. 

The  speaker  is  telling  the  story  to  his  son  over  their 
after-dinner  port.  The  manner  is  colloquial,  gestures 
of  the  hand  and  forearm  predominating, 

2.  [It  is]  God's  gift  i7iagiiific  [whether]  exercised,  etc. 

3-6.  Painter's  or  revealing  hand;  suggest  by  describ- 
ing an  arc  of  a  circle  not  too  large.     Action  here  at  the 


Science  and  art  form  two  means  o/  assimilation:  the  one  by  means  o_f  ab- 
sorption, the  other  by  means  o/ emanation.  The  one  gives  and  communicates: 
the  other  unceasingly  receives  and  appeals. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         207 

right  side  throughout.  At  encroaching,  develop  the  arm 
with  slight  acquiring  action  of  the  hand.  Friendship, 
supportive  hand,  palm  from  earth.  No  blaze,  slight  re- 
jection, with  tremolo  of  revealing  hand.  All  majesty, 
painter's  assertion.  This  is  a  continuous  chain  of 
actions;  sustain  the  arm  throughout  and  do  not  be  in  a 
hurry  to  drop  it  at  the  conclusion.  Best  to  sustain  it 
until,  as  if  recalled  to  yourself  by  your  auditor's  smile, 
you — 

7-10.  Drop  arm  with  off-hand  movement  of  rejection 
at  about  the  waist-line,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Well,  let  it 
go."  Bee's  iving,  the  film  on  old  port.  Paraphrased,  the 
sentence  reads:  "The  wine  I  have  drunk  makes  me  use 
too  gorgeous  a  comparison,"  perhaps  with  a  deprecatorj' 
smile.  Well  [I  will  try  again].  Action  this  time  at  left 
side.  Intellectual  hand,  "with  arm  to  earth;"  indicate 
various  components  of  the  picture. 

11.  Such  a  castle,  palm  revealing;  sheer  stress,  repul- 
sion. 

12.  Rejection  with  strong  hand.  Fighting's  finished, 
surrender  hand.  Vile  rains,  boring  action  of  hand,  fore- 
finger prominent. 

13.  O'ergroivs,  acquiring  hand;  till,  etc.,  indication. 
15.  Indicate   at   side,  palm   up,  supportive;    crumbled 

slow,  turn  and  Sink  wrist;  crashed,  drop  arm,  seriously, 
with  regret  in  the  voice,  but  be  careful  not  to  make  it 
minor.  From  line  7,  IVell,  to  line  15  the  action  is  again 
continuous. 

18.  Furtive  fingers,  delicate  action  of  fingers;  attitude, 
concealment. 

19.  Honest  liquor,  hand  in  attitude  of  presentation. 
Do  not  attempt  to  suggest  the  hanging  head.  One  more 
throw,  the  figure  is,  of  course,  of  a  dice-box.  It  is  per- 
haps better  not  to  suggest  it  in  action,  unless  very  deli- 
cately, since  doing  so  would  divert  the  attention  from  the 
thought  to  its  symbol.  The  thought  is:  "One  more 
attempt  to  win  back  Clive  to  his  former  self." 

21.  If  any  action,  appeal;  but  very  off-hand. 

22.  Come,  appeal  as  before,  but  stronger.     Speck-centre, 

t — '. ~~; r~~ 

Bearings  of  the  body  are  pantomimic  adJectiTes,  qualifying  the  indizidual  | 
kind  of  character  tuhich  is  in  action. — Steele  Mackave. 


2o8         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

pressure  of  thumb  and  little  finger.      Wide,  arm  action, 
hand  expanded. 

23.  Your  viortal,  supportive  indication  to  Clive;  deified, 
to  heaven. 

24.  Impatient  rejection;  s^uaHoia  bold,  i^re.se:nt2iX.\on. 

25.  Drop  arm.  If  a  friend  has  leave  to  question,  sus- 
pensive pause  here,  such  a  pause  as  w^e  sometimes  fill  up 
with  the  monosyllable  "  er."  Perhaps  the  speaker  feels 
a  little  hesitation  at  asking  the  direct  question;  but, 
after  beating  about  for  some  time,  finally  does  blurt 
out,  when  were  you  tnost  brave,  in  short,  rapidly  and  ener- 
getically. 

28.  Brain-lodged,  tap  forehead.  Curse  it,  contract  hand 
simply. 

29.  When  my  memory  touches  [it].  Ugh,  a  shiver  not  a 
word,  slightly  drawing  in  elbows  and  raising  shoulders. 

30.  Declaration. 

31.  I  felt,  affirmation;  connect  these  actions;  do  not 
overdo  them;  remember  it  is  conversation. 

32-35.  "Browning  has  caught  the  two  most  striking 
symptoms  of  the  victim  of  the  opium  habit:  the  fixed 
though  dazed  regard  of  some  indifferent  object,  and 
the  lifeless,  monotonous  voice." — Rolfe.  Head  slightly 
bowed,  but  with  eye  to  audience — a  necessary  artistic 
variation  from  the  description.  Eyes  half  closed  sleep- 
ily. Very  indifferent  manner  and  voice;  general  atti- 
tude repose,  but  very  relaxed;  chest  somewhat  passive. 
Gradually  grow  more  animated  as  the  story  develops. 

41-43.  Careless  gesture  of  distribution  with  left  hand, 
to  save  the  right  for  stronger  action  by  and  by.  Hold 
attitude  to  condescending,  when  the  hand  takes  attitude 
of  protection;  hold  this  to  lost,  when  it  changes  to  dis- 
tribution with  surrender,  or  simply  to  surrender.  Juve- 
nile, long  "  i." 

50-51.  Should  the  honor  [of  bending,  etc.],  stay  but  play- 
ing [that  is,  fair  playing],  end  more  or  less  abruptly.  A 
good  effect  can  be  made  here  by  a  suspensive  pause 
after  end,  and  giving  the  following  clause  with  indiffer- 
ent concession.  The  whole  sentence  and  that  following 
, _ __ 1 

Yellow  is  the  color  0/  the  soul.  It  is  the  color  of  flame.  Flame  contains  the 
■warmth  0/ life  and  the  light  0/  the  fitinei.  As  the  soul  contains  and  unites 
the  life  and  the  mind,  so  the  flame  ivartns  and  shines. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  209 

will  bear  a  considerable  amount  of  circumflex  inflec- 
tion. 

52-53.  On  a  booby  born  to  stare  at  lacc-and-ruffles,  not  ask 
of  \\.\\<tm\  if  the  hand,  etc.  Somewhat  difiicult  to  read 
well.  Lace-and-riijjlcs  is  elliptical  in  the  first  instance, 
and  there  the  emphasis  of  the  idea  naturally  belongs. 
When  the  expression  does  occur,  having  been  thought 
already  in  the  speaker's  mind,  the  emphasis  is  partly 
lost,  as  if  he  said  "  not  ask  of  them."  Lace-and-rufflcs  is 
subordinate  to  the  whole  idea  it  interrupts.  Stare  at  is 
antithetical  not  merely  to  ask  of,  but  to  the  W'hole 
clause.  [Ask]  if  the  hand  they  hide  plays  fair,  the  em- 
phasis, therefore,  culminating  on  fair.  Read  a  few 
times  as  ]:)araphrased  above,  then  substitute  the  original, 
keeping  emphasis  and  inflection  the  same,  and  you  will 
arrive  at  the  best  way  of  reading  the  sentence  that  oc- 
curs to  me. 

54-55.  Gradually  become  more  animated.  Knowledge 
grows,  "I  am  learning  something,"  ironical,  of  course. 

56.   Indignant  contempt  with  an  element  of  surprise. 

56-59.  Never  did  a  thunder-clap  [so]  cause  emotion  [in 
Thyrsis  so]  startle  [him  with  his  arms]  locked  [about] 
Chloe  in  his  lap,  as  my  word  and  gesture  [i.e.,  flinging  down 
the  cards]  y^/-^^  [i.e.,  caused  emotion,  though  of  a  differ- 
ent kind  in]  the  man  of  arms. 

60.  An  ingenious  variation  of  the  threadbare  expres- 
sion, "found  his  voice."  That  expression,  ^\c.,  s\\x\)x\%&, 
almost  bewilderment,  predominating  over  anger.  Strong 
attitude,  fists  clinched;  or,  better,  fingers  working  spas- 
modically as  if  to  clutch  Clive's  throat  ;  arms  drawn 
back. 

61.  Calmly  and  coldly,  with  great  distinctness  and 
deliberation;  head  inclined  from  and  lifted;  upper  lids 
dropped;  contemptuous  curl  of  lips;  poise  normal,  no 
movement  nor  contraction  anywhere. 

61-67.  Possibly,  etc.,  restrained  fury,  very  sarcastic. 
He  despises  his  antagonist,  and  evidently  does  not  dream 
of  final  resistance.  Let  the  passage  grow  in  intensity 
to  the  very  end. 

JU 


Recitation   is  not  nctin^.  ami  -Wc-   must   content  ourselves  with  sufgrsting; 
rather  than  atteinj>ting,  complete  dramatization. — Genevieve  Stebbins. 


4- 


210         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

66-69.  On  your  kfiees,  indicate  with  tyrant's  hand,  i.e., 
"to  arm  to  earth;"  rage  unrestrained  to  the  end;  weight 
on  advanced  foot. 

70.  As  before,  or  with  possibly  a  touch  of  defiance  in 
voice  and  action. 

70-72.  The  action  is  sufficiently  suggested  by  the  text. 
Do  not  overdo  this  passage;  remember  that  these  are 
gentlemen,  not  rowdies. 

74-76.  Strong  emotional  emphasis;  hurry  these  lines 
a  little;  offensive  action  of  fist,  conversational  action  of 
arm. 

76-78.  Crept  close  to,  etc.  Here  the  imitative  action  of 
the  finger  must  help  to  carry  the  main  idea  over  the 
long  parenthesis,  a  parenthesis,  too,  that  is  not  without 
reason;  for  Clive,  formidably  Clive  again,  is  living  over 
this  scene  once  more,  and  now  as  then  vents  his  vexa- 
tion at  his  failure  on  his  finger.     Forefinger,  disgust. 

78.  Gone  my  chance!  Drop  arm  with  abandon  as  of 
letting  the  pistol  fall,  or  throwing  it  impatiently  aside. 

79,  Scarce  an  inch,  indicate.  Through  this  have  the 
tone  of  vexation. 

81.  ' Twas  his  right.     Suppression,  palm    up,  as   if    in 
reply  to  the  thought  of  the  auditor  that  it  was  unfair. 
82-84.  Action  as  described. 

85.  Perfectly  steady  gaze.  Be  careful  not  to  fling 
back  the  head  or  have  any  action  of  the  arms.  Attitude 
of  feet,  defiance,  but  not  too  strong. 

86.  Fire — and  go  to  hell!  Separate  the  phrases  as  in- 
dicated. Make  the  latter  a  menace.  If  given  flippantly 
it  would  not  have  affected  his  antagonist  as  it  does. 

87-90.  Twice — thrice.  No  action  here,  but  be  as  im- 
pressive as  possible.  Laugh,  etc.;  attitude  here  of  hold- 
ing the  pistol  pointing  upward  or  with  arm  dropped. 
Speak  as  if  the  words  were  forced  from  you  against 
your  will.     Shrink  within  yourself  as  you  proceed. 

At  90,  writhing  action  of  the  body,  arms  raised,  fists 
clinched  and  strong  elbow  as  if  to  ward  off  him  and  hell 
and  God.  Gradually  drop  the  head  lower  in  shame  and 
raise  the  arms  higher.      Hesitate  before  and  after  so  [I 


Blue  is  the  color  of  the  mind.    It  is  the  color  0/  the  sky,  the  home  of  pure 
intellects,  set  free  from  the  body,  who  see  and  ktio'M  all  things. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  21 1 

own  that];  then,  with  a  supreme  effort,  drop  both  arms 
with  relaxed  hands,  lifting  the  head  in  opposition,  and 
turning  on  the  ankle  until  the  back  is  almost  toward 
the  audience  as  you  finish  the  words  I  did  cheat.  Make 
this  climax  on  did.  At  the  last  word  drop  the  head 
again,  letting  the  hands  contract,  as  they  will  naturally 
tend  to  do.     Hold  the  attitude  a  few  seconds. 

91.  Turn  to  audience;  imitative  action  ^idon'ii  he  thrno. 

92.  But  as  for  [actual]  knoicledii^e  if  [whether]. 

93.  No  one  could  vouch  that  he  went  through  the 
door  because  no  one  looked  that  way,  is  the  gist  of  the 
passage. 

91-95.  Out  rushed,  indicate.  Hold  attitude  with  palm 
from  earth  until  such  a  blank  astonishvient,  when  both 
hands  express  surprise;  hold  this  to  mute,  when  the 
arms  drop. 

96-99.  Negation  of  head  with  slight  smile.  Such  reac- 
tion, etc.,  broad  declaration,  both  arms;  hands  "  from 
arm  to  earth."  Ro^ue  :znd  yrs^ai,  etc.,  arms  and  hands 
indicating  surprise.  Drum  and  fife,  etc.,  fists  clinched, 
arms  drawn  back  at  waist-line,  with  strong  elbow. 

99.  Shake  fist  or  warning  finger  at  the  imaginary  rogue. 

100.  Bring  arms  to  side,  with  fists  still  clinched. 
Never  fear,  affirmation  of  head. 

101-102.  Extend  arm  toward  them,  palm  "  with  arm  to 
earth;"  head  lifted;  eyes  with  regard  of  inferior; 
weight  on  retired  foot.   Slowly  bring  the  arm  to  the  side. 

103.  Indicate  across  the  body,  i.e.,  with  right  arm 
toward  the  left  side.  Not  a  single  voice,  bring  arm  back 
to  side  with  slight  declarative  movement.  From  here 
to  line  113  the  most  effective  manner  will  be  with  arms 
at  the  side,  the  only  pantomime  being  the  slightest 
possible  action  of  the  muscles  of  the  face,  gradually 
hardening  into  greater  and  greater  sternness.  Do  not 
scowl  nor  bluster.  Remember  that  conscious  strength 
needs  neither  pantomimic  nor  vocal  explosions.  Make 
the  voice  and  manner  menacing,  but  the  menace  re- 
strained and  thoroughly  cool.  At  your  friend,  a  slight 
indication  of  the  head  and  e3'e  alone. 


■ 1 

The  refeated  extension  of  the  arms  denotes  but  little  tntelligence,  little  sup- 
pleness in  the  tcrist  and  /infers.  The  movement  o/  a  single  finger  indicates 
great  finesse. — Delaimosne.  I 


212         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

113.  Something  of  a  pause;  then,  in  off-hand  fashion, 
■IV ell,  etc. 

115.  Desperation,  madness,  distributive  action  of  hand; 
never  mind,  negation;  here's,  etc.,  affirmative  indication 
of  hand,  with  forefinger  active. 

116.  Declaration,  both  hands;  fear,  negation,  both 
hands  and  shake  of  head. 

117.  Declaration  with  surrender,  concession.  No  such 
rush,  etc.,  demonstrative  indication,  indication  with  re- 
vealing hand,  "  from  arm  from  earth."  One  or  both 
hands.     Awe  in  the  voice  and  manner. 

J15-117.  This  can  also  be  given  effectively  without 
gestures. 

[When  not  otherwise  indicated,  a  note  refers  to  the  whole  line  or 
lines  under  which  it  stands,  beginning  with  the  first  word.  Bracketed 
words  supply  ellipses  in  the  text,  or  paraphrase  preceding  words.] 


NEWS  OF  THE  DAY. 


"TI^VENING  Express!    Times!    Times!    Evening  Ex- 

"^      press! 
Evening  Express?     Mister,  Times?     Times? 
Evening  Express?"  the  newsboy  cried. 
But  it  scarcely  rippled  the  living  tide 
That  ebbed  and  flowed  in  the  busy  street, 
With  its  aching  hearts  and  its  restless  feet. 
Again  through  the  hum  of  the  city  thrilled, 
"  Evening  Express!    Great  battle!   Ten  thousand  killed!" 
And  the  little  carrier  hurried  away 
With  the  sorrowful  news  of  that  winter  day. 

To  a  dreary  room,  in  an  attic  high. 
Trembled  the  words  of  that  small,  sharp  cry; 


Red  is  the  color  0/  life.      This  is  asserted  by  fire  ^  by  the  heat  of  the  blood.- 
Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  213 

And  a  lonely  widow  bowed  her  head, 

And  murmured,  "Willie!     My  Willie  is  dead! 

Oh!  I  feared  it  was  not  an  idle  dream 

That  led  me,  last  night,  to  that  cold,  dark  stream, 

Where  the  ground  was  wet  with  the  crimson  rain, 

And  strewed  all  over  with  ghastly  slain. 

The  stars  were  dim,  for  the  night  was  wild: 

But  I  threaded  the  gloom  till  I  found  my  child. 

The  cold  rain  fell  on  his  upturned  face. 

And  the  swift  destroyer  had  left  no  trace 

Of  the  sudden  blow,  and  the  sharp,  quick  pain, 

But  a  little  wound  and  a  purple  stain. 

I  tried  to  speak,  but  my  voice  was  gone, 

And  my  soul  stood  there  in  the  cold,  gray  dawn, 

While  they  rifled  his  body  with  ruthless  hand, 

And  covered  him  up  in  the  reeking  sand. 

"Willie,  oh,  Willie!  it  seems  but  a  day 
Since  thy  baby  head  on  my  bosom  lay. 
Since  I  heard  thy  prattle,  so  soft  and  sweet. 
And  guided  the  steps  of  thy  tottering  feet. 
And  thou  wert  the  fairest  and  last  of  three, 
Which  the  Father  in  heaven  had  given  to  me. 
All  the  life  of  my  life,  love,  hope,  and  joy 
Were  treasured  in  thee,  my  strong,  brave  boy. 
And  the  last  faint  words  that  thy  father  said, 
Were,  'Willie  will  mind  thee  when  I  am  dead.' 
But  they  tore  the  flag  from  thy  death-cold  hand 
And  covered  thee  up  in  the  reeking  sand." 
She  read  the  names  of  the  missing  and  slain, 
But  one  she  read  over  and  over  again; 
And  still  the  words  which  her  white  lips  said. 
Were:  "  Company  C,  William  Warren,  dead." 


On  the  light  of  your  own  soul,  on  thf  substance  of  your  own  character,  de- 
\f'fn(ls   the  completion   of  acquired  knowledge    into  practical  skill. — Steele 
Mackaye. 


214         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

The  night  came  down  to  her  cold  hearthstone, 

But  she  still  read  on  in  that  same  low  tone; 

And  still  the  words  her  white  lips  said, 

Were:  "Company  C,  William  Warren,  dead." 

The  light  of  the  morning  chased  the  gloom 

From  the  emberless  hearth  of  that  attic  room; 

And  the  city's  pulses  throbbed  again, 

But  the  mother's  heart  had  forgotten  its  pain. 

She  had  gone  through  the  gates  to  that  better  land, 

With  that  terrible  list  in  her  thin,  cold  hand, 

With  her  white  lips  parted,  as  last  she  said: 

"  Company  C,  William  Warren,  dead." 


BREAD. 

(FRANCE  1846-7.) 


Translated  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor, 


[Among  the  selections  to  which  Mme.  Arnaud  gives  special  promi- 
nence in  her  writings  on  Delsarle — writings  for  which  we  cannot  be  too 
grateful,  as  they  give  us  almost  the  only  authentic  inner  view  of  the 
great  French  teacher  at  work  and  at  home, — "Bread"  stands  fore- 
most. Darcier,  who  Mme.  Arnaud  names  as  "preeminent  in  the 
crowd,"  and  who  may  still  be  heard  in  certain  circles  in  Paris,  recited 
the  selection  with  great  spirit,  never  failing  to  make  a  hit.  Doubtless 
one  of  the  chief  reasons  of  the  success  of  "  Bread"  was  its  peculiar 
application  to  the  then  recent  troublous  times,  when  famine  stared 
Parisians  in  the  face.  "  Bread  "  is  really  a  political  song,  but  for 
the  purposes  of  this  book  the  music  is  unnecessary.  The  selection  is 
in  sympathy  with  the  principles  recently  enunciated  by  Henry  George, 
and  is,  therefore,  quite  appropriate  to  our  own  times,  apart  from  its 
literary  merit. — Editor.] 

A ^7 HEN  on  the  height  and  by  the  river 

The  mills  have  hushed  their  busy  clack, 
The  miller's  donkey  browses  calmly. 
And  carries  not  the  well-filled  sack, 


The  voice  has  three  agents:  the  projective   agent^  or  the  lungs:  the  vibra- 
tive  agent,  or  the  larynx;  the  reverberative  agent,  or  the  7nouth. — Delsakte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  215 

Then  Famine,  like  a  wolf,  comes  stalking, 

And  enters  homes  before  our  eyes; 
Around,  above,  a  storm  is  gath'ring, 
And  groans  go  upward  to  the  skies. 
Vou    cannot    hush    the    murmurs    of    the  people   when 

they're  led 
By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "We 
want  bread!" 

Then  Famine  travels  from  the  village, 

The  city  feels  its  touch  at  length; 
Make  haste,  and  seek  to  stop  its  journey 

With  drums  beat  hard  with  all  j'our  strength, 
In  spite  of  powder  and  swift  bullet, 

It  travels  as  on  wing  of  bird. 
And  on  remotest,  highest  rampart 
It  plants  its  black  flag  undisturbed. 
You  cannot   hush    the  murmurs    of    the    people    when 

they're  led 
By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "We 
want  bread!" 

Of  what  avail  are  hosts  of  soldiers  ? 

For  Famine  gives  to  those  it  arms 
The  keenest  weapons,  and  it  gathers 

Recruits  from  forests,  fields,  and  farms, 
With  forks  and  shovels,  scythes  and  sickles; 

At  knell  of  war  fond  lovers  part. 
And  maidens  fair  are  weeping  sadly, 

The  cannon's  summons  breaks  the  heart. 
You    cannot    husli    the    murmurs  of    the    people  when 
they're  led 


The  arms  should  nez'ir  e.ttend  the  same  way.  J/  I  hey  /allow  each  other, 
one  should  be  more  advanced  than  the  other.  AVrvr  allow  parallelism . — 
Delaumosnk.  ,- 


2i6         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "We 
want  bread!" 

Among  the  eager  crowds  of  people 

Arrest  all  armed  with  knife  or  gun; 
Erect  in  open  squares  as  menace 

The  scaffold's  framework  nearly  done. 
But  when,  in  sight  of  trembling  thousands, 

The  bloody  sword  its  work  shall  end. 
And  destinies  for  aye  be  settled, 
A  cry  of  "  Blood  "  on  high  ascends. 
Vou    cannot  hush    the    murmurs    of   the   people  when 

they're  led 
By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "We 
want  bread!" 

Our  daily  bread  is  life's  sustainer 
As  much  as  water,  fire,  and  air; 
Without  it  we  are  helpless,  dying, 

And  'tis  God's  debt  for  us  to  care. 
But  has  not  He  paid  all  He  owes  us? 

Has  He  refused  to  give  us  soil? 
The  sun's  bright  rays  shine  warm  upon  us, 
And  ripening  grain  repays  our  toil. 
You    cannot   hush    the    murmurs  of    the   people   when 

they're  led 
By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "We 
want  bread!" 

The  earth  is  full  of  life  and  vigor. 

And  grain  in  harvests  rich  should  yield 

From  ardent  tropics  to  north's  limit, 
A  golden  crown  for  every  field. 


Let   a   head — hoTvei'er   loving  one  vtay  suppose  it   to  be  intrinsically —  hend  \ 
toward  the  object  of  its  contemplation,  and  let  the  shoulder  not  be  lifted,  that 
head  ivill plainly  lack  an  air  of  vitality  and  warm  sincerity  without  which 
it  cannot  persuade  aj.— Delsarte.  I 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         217 

Dig  deep,  then,  into  earth's  broad  bosom, 

And  for  this  work,  which  ne'er  should  cease, 
Beat  sword  and  cannon  into  ploughshares. 
And  change  the  arm  of  war  to  peace! 
You    cannot    hush   the  murmurs   of   the    people  when 

they're  led 
By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "We 
want  bread!" 

What  matters,  then,  the  petty  quarrels 

Of  monarchs,  statesmen  high  in  life? 
Shall  we,  because  of  foolish  hatreds. 

Take  up  our  arms  for  blood  and  strife  ? 
Far  rather  let  us  join  our  forces. 

With  *'  work  "  for  watchword,  peace  to  reign; 
Give  up  the  earth  to  plough  and  sickle. 
And  bread  will  ne'er  be  scare  again. 
You    cannot    hush   the    murmurs  of   the    people  when 

they're  led 
By  pangs  of  hunger;  nature  speaks,  and  they  cry:  "  We 
want  bread!" 


SUGGESTIVE   ANALYSIS. 

Genevieve  Stebbins  Thompson. 

The  first  picture  to  be  seen  in  the  imagination  and 
externalized  in  voice  and  action  is  the  calm  of  nature 
void  of  man.     Then  is  ushered  in  the  storm  of  woe  in 


The  intelligent  man  makes  /eiv  gestures.  To  multiply  gestures  indicatts  a 
lack  0/  intelligence.  The  /ace  is  the  titermometer  of  intelligence.  Let  at 
much  expression  as  possible  be  given  to  //;^yiif<'.-DF,L.\L'MOSNS. 


2i8  JDELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

men's  hearts,  and  the  stanza  culminates  in  the  piteous 
cry,  "  we  want  bread."  Those  who  have  been  students 
of  the  Delsarte  system  of  expression  will  remember  the 
striking  distinction  drawn  between  the  dynamic  voice 
with  intensity  in  it  and  the  mere  empty  tone.  To  ac- 
quire this  dynamic  quality,  the  reader  must  vividly  see 
.  and  deeply  feel  within  himself  the  scenes  and  emotions 
depicted  in  the  poem. 

The  second  stanza  should  be  given  with  concentration, 
rapidity,  and  excitement.  The  refrain  "  we  want  bread  " 
should  be  given  with  a  vocal  coloring  of  desperation. 

The  third  stanza  should  have  the  character  of  lamen- 
tation and  menace.  "  The  cannon's  summons  breaks  the 
heart,"  and  the  refrain,  are  given  in  a  tone  of  menace 
and  agony. 

The  fourth  stanza  is  given  with  despair  and  menace, 
and  the  refrain  as  if  spoken  from  on  high  by  astern  and 
mighty  avenger. 

The  last  three  stanzas  should  be  given  in  an  orotund 
tone,  as  voicing  the  great  principle  of  the  right  of  all 
God's  creatures  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  labor. 

In  the  first  stanza  the  action  of  the  first  four  lines  is 
descriptive,  and  then  Famine  is  personified  by  a  crouch- 
ing and  advancing  attitude.  In  line  7  is  a  sweeping, 
descriptive  gesture,  which  is  followed  by  an  attitude  of 
passionate  appeal. 

In  the  second  stanza  in  the  first  line  the  arm  sweeps 
horizontally,  expressing  the  advance  of  famine,  and  is 
held  pointing  as  the  body  earnestly  advances  at  the  sec- 
ond line.  At  the  third  line  turn  to  the  opposite  direc- 
tion and  assume  a  repellent  attitude.  The  gestures  in 
the  following  lines  should  suggest  the  action'described. 

The  third  stanza  should  close  with  the  hands  held 
convulsively  in  a  menacing  attitude. 

In  the  fourth  stanza  the  gestures  should  be  of  the  full 
arm,  and  should  culminate  in  uplifting  the  arm  above 
the  head  at  the  cry  of  "blood."  The  arm  should  be 
held  aloft  until  the  cry  "  we  want  bread,"  when  both 
arms  should  be  uplifted. 


When  a  man  presses  a  woman''s  hand,  we  may  affirm  that  he  loves  her  sen- 
sually—that is  to  say,  solely  /or  physical  qualities— if,  on  looking  at  her,  he 
moves  his  head  toward  the  shoulder  that  is  o^J>osite  /if r.— Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  219 

The  last  three  stanzas  are  purely  declamatory;  de- 
scriptive and  dramatic  action  ceases  and  the  ordinary 
oratorical  gestures  are  used. 


EVER  SO  FAR  AWAY. 


Von  Boyle. 


[I  have  given  this  selection  successfully  without  dialect;  so  did  the 
late  Harry  G.  Richmond,  comedian.  So  does  Mr.  Marshall  P.  Wilder. 
The  following  is  about  the  way  I  present  it  at  children's  entertain- 
ments.— Von  B.] 

'  I  ^HERE  are  two  very  funny  fellows  in  Harlem:  one 
-*■  is  Mr.  Pointer,  the  insurance  man;  the  other  is  Mr. 
Dingelbender,  the  butcher  man. 

As  Mr.  Dingelbender  sat  at  supper  the  other  evening, 
the  door-bell  rang,  and  Mr.  Pointer  came  rushing  into 
the  dining-room. 

"  Dingelbender,  Pm  in  a  scrape,  and  I  want  you  to 
help  me  out." 

*'  You  got  shcrapes,  eh!  Veil  you  shcraped  yourselluf 
in — now  you  can  shcrape  yourselluf  oudt  again." 

"Friend  Dingelbender,  Pm  not  joking  now;  Pm  in 
dead  earnest." 

"Is  dot  so!  Vhen  vill  dhey  burry  you?  Look  here, 
vonct,  Mr.  Pointer.  You  vas  such  a  awful  choker  dat 
if  you  vas  really  deadt  in  earnest,  all  your  friendts  vould 
link  somehow  it  a  good  choke.  But  if  you  vas  really  in 
some  tifficulties,  und  I  can  shcrape  you  oudt,  I  vill  pe 
fery  habby  to  shcrape  you  already!" 


The  law  of  direction  in  gesture  is:  upward  /or  the  spiritual  and  universal: 
downward  /or  the  weak  and  bestial;  horizontally  expanded  /or  the  serene 
and  philanthropic. — Genevieve  Stebbins. 


220        DELSARTE   RECJTATIOJV  BOOK. 

"  Thanks.  Well,  this  is  how  the  matter  stands.  I 
engaged  a  prestidigitateur,  you  know,  to  give  our  Sun- 
day-school an  entertainment,  this  evening,  and  the  gen- 
tleman met  with  an  accident  while  practicing  some  trick. 
He  swallowed  a  piano — I  mean  an  organ, — mouth-organ, 
you  know.  Now  I  want  you  to  come  right  around  and 
take  his  place." 

"  No,  sir.  You  tink  I  vill  make  a  laughing-shtocking 
oudt  of  mineselluf,  und  shpoil  mine  intigestion  shwal- 
lowing  pianos  und  moudt-organs  und  tings?" 

'*  No,  Mr.  Dingelbender;  I  simply  want  you  to  address 
the  children." 

"  Dress  dem  shildren!  Poor  leetle  tings,  und  such  a 
coldt  night,  too!  Vy  don't  you  sendt  dem  back  home 
und  make  deir  barents  dress  dem?" 

"  Now,  Dingelbender,  don't  tease  me,  and  I'll  promise 
not  to  make  fun  of  you  any  more.  Will  you  tz^/dress 
the  children  for  me?" 

"  Yes,  I  vill  do  de  pest  vot  I  can," 

Mr.  Dingelbender  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  half 
an  hour  he  was  at  the  little  chapel,  confronting  a  large 
and  enthusiastic  audience.  Rising  to  the  importance  of 
the  occasion,  he  said: 

"  Mrs.  Ladies  und  shentlemans — und  shildrens — es- 
becially  de  shildrens: 

"  I  tink  on  such  occasions  like  dhis  ve  should  reco- 
member  dot  men  und  vomens  vas  only  '  shildren  of  de 
larger  growdt',  und  dot  poys  und  girls  vas  men  und 
vomen  in  miniature.  Efery  man  und  vomans  vas  vonce 
a  leetle  girl — a  leetle  poy  I  mean — und  de  poy  of  to-day 
vill  be  de  man  of  to-morrow, — or  de  day  afder  to-mor- 
row.    Efery  goodt  man  has   shtill  someting  of  de  poy 


When  a  man  presses  a  woman's  hand^  we  may  affirm  that  he  loves  A<V  ten- 
derly,  if  he  bows  his  head  obliquely  to  her. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         221 

apout  him,  und  efery  true  poy  has  someting  of  de  man 
apouthim;  und  all  great  mens  dhey  lofe  shildrens.  I 
lofe  shildrens  minesclluf;  I  can't  helb  it — I  vas  porn  dat 
vay. 

"  I  recomember  vhen  I  vas  a  leetle  shild  mineselluf, 
shust  as  blain  as  dhough  it  vas  to-morrow.  I  had  put- 
tons  all  ofer  me,  und  copper  door-blates  on  de  frondt  of 
mine  shoes  to  keep  mine  toes  inside.  Und  I  had  a 
leetle  shweetheart.  Her  frondt  name  vas  Susan — Susan 
Ann  Gugenheimer.  She  used  to  sing  a  leetle  song  like 
dhis. 

Vot  care  I  for  goldt  und  silber, 
Vot  care  I  for  haus  und  landt? 
Vot  care  I  for  shiffs  in  de  ocean — 
All  vot  I  vant  vas  a  nice  yunk  man. 

Und  I  vas  her  nice  yunk  man  dot  time. 

"  Veil,  ve  poys  had  also  a  song.  Vot  you  call  dot  song 
now,  vhere  you  put  your  handts  up  dhis  vay?  \indicatitigl\ 
Oh,  I  know  now,  it's  \sings^  '  London  pridge  vas 
purning  up,  purning  up,  purning  up.'  Dot's  it.  Veil, 
vhile  ve  sing  dot  song  dhem  leetle  girls  dhey  used  logo 
underbeneath  our  handts,  und  ve — veil,  ve  usedt  to  kiss 
'em.  Oh,  my!  [sffiac^s  li'psl  dem  vas  de  shweetest  kisses; 
I  can  tasdt  dhem  yedt. 

"Veil,  de  odher  tay  I  vas  sidding  by  mine  open  vin- 
dow.  Dot  school-haus  hadt  shust  ledt  himselluf  oudt — 
it  vas  recess  times.  I  pegan  to  tink  apout  shildhoodt 
tays — dhem  olden  tays, — dhem  golden  tays  vot  vill  nefer 
come  pack  on  me!  I  fell  in  a  shleep  und  saw  de  shky 
vas  all  full  mit  cloudts,  und  de  cloudts  vas  full  mit  shil- 
_ J. 


Manner  is  the  unconscious   revelator  of  character:  it   is  the  soul's  hand- 
iuritingu/>on  the  walls  o//2esh.—'iAK$..  Edna  Sneli,  Poulson.     ^ 


222  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

drens,  und  de  shildrens  vas  full  mit  choy,  singing  und 
playing  dhem  happy  songs  und  games  of  shildhoodt. 
Suttenly  dhere  appeared  amongst  dhem  a  eldterly, 
kindly  man  dot  I  recognized  at  vonce  as  Fader  Goose — 
I  mean  Fader  Gander.  He  recited  a  leetle  poem  dot 
amoosed  the  shildrens,  und  somehow  touched  a  responsif 
chord  in  mine  own  heart.  Und  r.s  he  recited,  dhem 
leetle  ones,  dhough  dhey  listened  mit  him,  dhey  shtill 
vent  on  mit  dheir  own  blays  und  songs,  und  de  effect  as 
it  reached  mine  ears  vas  someting  like  dhis: 

My  name  it  vas  Fader  Gander, 
Und  I  come  vrom  ofer  yonder 
Ofer  de  hills,  past  Shones's  Mills — 

It  vas  efer  so  far  avay. 
I  came  vrom  a  town  in  Vonderland, 
It's  a  peautiful  blace,  you  must  undershtand, 
Vhere  dhey  nefer  get  late,  dhey  vas  alvays  on  handt, 

But  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 

\^Sings.\ 

'  A-vaiting  for  a  pardner, 
So  open  the  ring  und  pring  her  in 
Und  kiss  her  ven  you  get  her  in.' 

De  beoples  all  de  vhile  dhere, 

Dhey  laugh  und  dhey  sing  und  dhey  shmile  dhere: 

Dhere  vas  nefer  a  frown  in  all  of  dot  town. 

But  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 
Und  nopody  dhere  vas  naughdy  und  rude; 
Und  de  law  of  love  vas  so  veil  understoodt 
Dat  dhey  shpend  all  dlieir  time  in  de  doing  of  goodt — 

But  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 


JVAen  a  man  presses  a  ivomati's  hand,  we  may  affirm  that  he  does  not  love 
her,  if  his  head  retnains  straight  or  simply  bent  in  facitig  her . — Dei.sartk. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  223 

[Sings.'] 

'Johnny  Buff  had  money  enough 
To  lock  it  up  in  a  store-room,'  etc. 

Dhey're  careful  to  be  righdt  dliere; 
Dhey  nefer  scholdt  nor  fighdt  dhere, 
Und  nopody's  poor — I'm  certain  und  sure 

Dot  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 
Und  nopody  goes  to  law  ofer  dhere; 
Vhy,  dhey  haven't  a  shail,  nor  a  shudge,  nor  a  mayor, 
For  de   beoples  vas    honest,   dhey're  fair  und    dhey're 
shquare — 

But  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 

[Sings.] 
*  Green  gravel,  green  gravel. 
Your  true  love  vas  deadt, 
He  sendt  you  a  letter  to 
Turn  back  your  headt.' 

De  nights  vas  bright  as  tay  dhere, 
Und  dhey  haf  all  kinds  of  blay  dhere; 
Und  in  a  palloon  diiey  visit  de  moon — 

Oh,  dot's  efer  so  far  avay. 
You  took  vot  you  vant,  for  noting  vas  soldt, 
Vhy,  dot  landt  vas  all  full  mit  silber  und  goldt! 
Und  dhey  alvays  grow  yunk — dhey  nefer  grow  oldt; 

But  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 

[Sings.  ^ 
'Little  Sally  Vaters,  sitting  in  de  sun, 
Crying  und  veeping  for  a  yunk  man. 
Rise,  Sally,  rise,  vipe  your  eyes  off  mit  your  frock; 
J. ^ ^ ^ 

speech  is  the  /em'.r.ine^  action  the  masculine,  sex  in  expression.      The  former 
\  gives  the  finer  manifestation  of  thought,    the  latter  the  stronger  revelation 
of  life. — Fkanklin  H.  Sargent.  i 


\ 


224*      DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Fly  to  the  east,  fly  to  the  vest, 

Fly  to  the  fery  vone  dot  you  lofe  pest.' 

De  mosquitos  nefer  pite  you; 

I'm  sure  dhey  vouldt  telight  you, 

By  singing  dheir  song  de  whole  night  long, 

Pu-z-z-z!  efer  so  far  avay. 
Vhat  efer  you  vant  you  make  a  vish, 
Und  it's  prought  to  you  in  a  shina  tish, 
A  shlice  of  pie  or  a  piece  of  fish — 

But  it's  efer  so  far  avay. 

l^Sings.'l 
*  London  pridge  vas  purning  up,  my  fair  Jady,' 
\_Business  of  imitating  children  kissing^ 
Nov/  vouldt  you  like  to  go  dhere, 
Und  see  dot  vonderful  show  dhere, 
Ofer  de  hills,  past  Shones's  mills, 

Und  efer  so  far  avay? 
Dhen  don't  you  pe  cross  und  say  naughdy  tings, 
Und  a  shpirit  vill  took  you  right  under  his  vings, 
To  dot  landt  vhere  de  honey-bee  solemnly  sings, 
Und  bumples  und  puzzes  und  yet  nefer  shtings, 
Und  de  shildren  all  blay  mit  ponies  und  shwings, 
Und  vear  such  fine  dresses  you'd  tink  dhey  vas  kings, 
Und  efery  vone  shouts  vhen  de  tinner-pell  rings; 

It's  efer  und  efer  so  far,  far,  far  avay. 

"  Und  shust  dhen  I  voke  oudt;  und  it  vas  only  a  tream. 

But  somehow  I  tink  our  pest  treams  vill  all   come  true 

in  dot  '  Shweet-pooty  quick'  pye  und  pye." 

[Here  may  follow  singing  of  a  verse  or  two  of  "The  Sweet  Bye  and 
Bye  "  by  the  school  or  a  chorus]. 


Wlien  a  painter  exaviines  his  ivorky  he  moves  atuciy  from  it  perceptibly. 
He  moves  away  in  proportion  to  the  degree  0/ his  admiration  oy  it,  so  that  the 
retroactive  movement  0/  his  body  is  in  equal  ratio  to  the  interest  that  he  /eels 
in  contemplating  his  -work. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  225 

THE  MASSACRE  OF  ZOROASTER. 


F.  Marion  Crawford.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


[Nehushta,  a  Hebrew  maiden,  betrothed  to  Zoroaster,  had,  in  a  fit 
of  jealous  anger,  married  Darius,  king  of  the  Persians.  Zoroaster, 
greatly  grieved,  became  a  high  priest.  Finding,  from  an  interview 
with  him,  that  her  jealousy  was  groundless,  Nehushta  was  very  un- 
happy at  her  mistake.  The  king  had  been  called  to  a  distant  part  of 
his  kingdom  at  the  time  of  the  following  scene.] 

TI^OUR  days  after  the  king's  departure,  Nehushta  was 
wandering  in  the  gardens  as  the  sun  was  going 
down.  Just  then  a  strange  sound  echoed  far  off  among 
the  hills,  an  unearthly  cry  that  rang  high  in  the  air  and 
struck  the  dark  crags  and  doubled  in  the  echo,  and  died 
away  in  short,  faint  pulsations  of  sound.  She  started 
slightly;  she  had  never  heard  such  a  sound  before. 
Again  that  strange  cry  rang  out  and  echoed  and  died 
away.     Her  slave-women  gathered  about  her. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Nehushta. 

"  The  war-cry  of  the  children  of  Anak  is  like  that," 
said  a  little  Syrian  maid. 

Nehushta  pushed  the  slaves  aside  and  fled  toward  the 
palace.  The  truth  had  flashed  across  her.  Some  armed 
force  was  collecting  on  the  hills  to  descend  upon  the 
palace.  But  one  thought  filled  her  mind:  she  must 
find  Zoroaster  and  warn  him. 

Through  the  garden  she  ran,  and  up  the  broad  steps 
to  the  portico.  Slaves  were  moving  about  under  the 
colonnade,  lighting  the  great  torches  that  burned  there 
all  night.  They  had  not  heard  the  strange  cries  from 
the  hills.  As  she  entered  the  great  hall,  she  heard  the 
cry  again. 

"Go,"  she  said  to  the  little  Syrian  maid,  "go  in  one 
4. J. 


Rising  inflection  is  pros(<ective:  falling  inflection  is  reiros/>ective;  monotone 
is  sus/ensive.— Lewis  B.  Monroe. 


\ 


226        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

direction  and  I  will  go  in  another,  and  search  out 
Zoroaster,  the  high  priest,  and  bring  him." 

The  girl  turned  and  ran  through  the  halls,  and  Ne- 
hushta  went  another  way  upon  her  search.  On  and  on 
she  went  till  she  came  to  her  own  apartment.  Not  so 
much  as  one  white-robed  priest  had  she  seen.  Some- 
thing within  her  told  her  that  she  was  in  great  danger, 
and  the  calm  she  had  seen  in  the  palace  could  not  allay 
the  terror  of  that  cry  she  had  heard  three  times  from 
the  hills.  Just  then  the  Syrian  maid  came  running  in, 
and  fell  breathless  at  Nehushta's  feet. 

"  Fly,  fly,  beloved  mistress,"  she  cried;  "  the  devils  of 
the  mountains  are  upon  us — they  cover  the  hills — they 
are  closing  every  entrance — the  people  in  the  lower  pal- 
ace are  all  slain." 

"Where  is  Zoroaster?" 

"  He  is  in  the  temple  with  the  priests— by  this  time 
he  is  surely  slain — he  could  know  of  nothing  that  is  go- 
ing on — fly,  fly!"  cried  the  girl. 

"  On  which   side  are  they  coming?"  asked  Nehushta. 

"From  the  hills;  from  the  hills  they  are  descending 
in  thousands,"  cried  the  frightened  slave-women. 

"  Go  you  all  to  the  farther  window,"  commanded  Ne- 
hushta. "  Leap  down  upon  the  balcony — it  is  scarce  a 
man's  height, — follow  it  to  the  end  and  past  the  corner 
where  it  joins  the  main  wall  of  the  garden.  Run  along 
upon  the  wall  till  you  find  a  place  where  you  can  de- 
scend. Through  the  gardens  you  can  easily  reach  the 
road.  Fly,  and  save  yourselves  in  the  darkness."  But 
before  she  had  half  finished,  the  last  of  the  slave-women, 
mad  with  terror,  disappeared. 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  with  the  rest?"  asked  Nehushta 
of  the  Syrian  maid. 

+ 7+ 

A  man  shrinks  from  the  object  he  is  C07!sidering  whenever  it  inspires  him 
■with  a  feeling  of  repulsion.     He  shrinks  from  it  particularlywhenit  inspiresX 
him  with  fright. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         227 

"  I  have  eaten  thy  bread,  shall  I  leave  thee  in  the 
hour  of  death?"  asked  the  slave. 

"Go,  child,"  replied  Nehushta.  "  I  have  seen  thy  de- 
votion; thou  must  not  perish." 

But  the  Syrian  leaped  to  her  feet  as  she  answered: 

"  I  am  a  bondwoman,  but  I  am  a  daughter  of  Israel, 
even  as  thou  art.  Though  all  the  others  leave  thee,  I 
will  not.     It  may  be  that  I  can  help  thee." 

"Thou  art  a  brave  child,"  said  Nehushta.  "I  must 
go  to  Zoroaster;  stay  thou  here,  hide  thyself  among  the 
curtains,  escape  by  the  window  if  any  come  to  harm 
thee."     She  turned  and  went  rapidly  out. 

But  the  maid  grasped  the  knife  in  her  girdle,  and 
stole  upon  her  mistress's  steps.  The  din  rose  louder 
every  moment — the  shrieks  of  wounded  women  with 
the  moaning  of  wounded  men,  the  clash  of  swords  and 
arms,  and,  occasionally,  a  quick,  loud  rattle,  as  half  a 
dozen  arrows  struck  the  wall  together. 

Onward  flew  Nehushta.  She  shuddered  as  she  passed 
the  head  of  the  great  staircase  and  heard  a  wild  shriek 
that  died  suddenly  into  a  gurgling  death-hiss.  She 
paused  as  she  reached  the  temple-door,  and  listened. 
Faintly  through  the  thick  walls  she  could  hear  the 
sound  of  the  evening  chant.  The  priests  were  all  within 
with  Zoroaster,  unconscious  of  their  danger.  Nehushta 
tried  the  door.  The  great  bronze  gates  were  locked, 
and  though  she  pushed  with  her  whole  strength,  they 
would  not  move  a  hair's  breadth. 

"Press  the  nail  nearest  tlie  middle,"  said  a  small 
voice.  Nehushta  siarted.  It  was  the  little  Syrian 
slave.  She  put  her  hand  upon  the  round  head  of  the 
nail  and  pressed.  The  door  opened,  turning  noislessly 
upon  its    hinges.     The    seventy    priests,  in    even  rank, 


Each  impression  needs  I'ui  one  e.rf<ression,  so  do  not  multiply  gestures. 
Gesture  should  not  usurp  the  office  o/ speech.,  ctherivise  it  becomes  panttmime. 
— Genevieve  Stebbins. 


228  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

stood  round.  Solemnly  the  chant  rose  around  the  sa- 
cred fire  upon  the  black  stone  altar.  Zoroaster  stood 
before  it,  his  hands  lifted  in  prayer.  But  Nehushta 
with  a  sudden  cry  broke  their  melody: 

"Zoroaster — fly — there  is  yet  time!  The  enemy  are 
come  in  thousands;  they  are  in  the  palace.  There  is 
barely  time!" 

The  high  priest  turned  calmly,  his  face  unmoved, 
although  all  the  priests  ceased  their  chanting  and 
gathered  about  their  chief  in  fear.  As  their  voices 
ceased,  a  low  roar  was  heard  from  without,  as  though 
the  ocean  were  beating  at  the  gates. 

"Go  thou  and  save  thyself,"  said"  Zoroaster.  "I  will 
not  go.  If  it  be  the  will  of  the  All-Wise  that  I  perish, 
I  will  perish  before  this  altar.  Go  thou  quickh',  and  save 
thyself  while  there  is  yet  time." 

But  Nehushta  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and  gazed  into 
his  calm  eyes. 

"  Knowest  thou  not,  Zoroaster,  that  I  would  rather 
die  with  thee  than  live  with  any  other?  I  swear  to  thee, 
by  the  God  of  my  fathers,  I  will  not  leave  thee!" 

"There  is  no  more  time!"  cried  the  Syrian  maid. 
"There  is  no  more  time!  Ye  are  all  dead  men!  Be- 
hold, they  are  breaking  down  the  doors!" 

As  she  spoke,  the  noise  of  some  heavy  mass  striking 
against  the  bronze  gates  echoed  like  thunder  through 
the  temple,  and  at  each  blow  a  chorus  of  hideous  yells 
rose,  wild  and  long  drawn  out. 

"  Can  none  of  you  save  Zoroaster?"  cried  Nehushta. 

But  Zoroaster  gently  said:  "Ye  cannot  save  me,  for 
my  hour  is  come;  we  must  die  like  men,  and  like  priests 
of  the  Lord  before  His  altar;"  and,  raising  one  hand  to 
heaven,  he  chanted: 


Dramatic  singing  is  dangerous  to  the  iiocal  organism:  particularly  ivhen 
one  practices  the  shriek  or  scream,  which  produces  a  fine  effect  when  skilful- 
ly onployed,  but  is  most  pemiciojts  7vhen  used  in  excess.  —  Delsarte. 


Dels  ARTE  recitation  book. 


229 


CHANT  OF  ZOROASTER. 
Maestoso,    Marcato  marzial.  Composed  by  8.  G.  Pkatt. 


^ 


^^ 


^ 


U— ^ 


Praise  we  the  all  wise  God,  Who  hath  made  and  created  the 


^ 


years  anS  the  a  -  ges ;        Praise  Him  who  rides  on  death,  in  whose 


m 


f^S'i 


i^ 


?EI3 


Emphasize. 


"z?- 


^ 


233 


?=?= 


^ 


b=t: 


hand  are  all  power  and  honor  and  glory ;  Who  made  the  day  of 


3 


a 


-u 


M: 


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230         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

With  a  crash  the  great  bronze  doors  gave  way,  and 
fell  clanging  in.  In  an  instant  tlie  temple  was  filled 
with  a  swarm  of  hideous  men.  Their  swords  gleamed 
aloft  as  they  pressed  forward,  and  their  yells  rent  the 
roof.  They  had  hoped  for  treasure — they  saw  but  a 
handful  of  white-robed,  unarmed  men.  Their  rage 
knew  no  bounds,  and  their  screams  rose  more  piercing 
than  ever,  as  they  surrounded  the  doomed  band,  and 
dyed  their  blades  in  the  blood  that  flowed  red  over  the 
white  vestures. 

The  priests  struggled  like  brave  men,  but  the  foe  were 
a  hundred  to  one.  At  last,  one  tall  wretch  leaped  across 
a  heap  of  slain  and  laid  hold  of  Nehushta  by  the  hair 
and  strove  to  drag  her  out.  But  Zoroaster's  arms  went 
round  her  like  lightning  and  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 
The  Syrian  maid  raised  her  knife,  with  both  hands,  high 
above  her  head,  and  smote  the  villain  with  all  her  might. 
But  ere  he  had  fallen,  a  sharp  blade  fell  swiftly  and 
severed  the  small  hands  at  the  wrist,  and  the  brave  lit- 
tle slave  fell  shrieking  to  the  floor.  One  shriek,  and 
that  was  all;  for  the  same  sword  smote  her  again,  and 
so  she  died. 

But  Nehushta's  head  fell  forward  on  the  high  priest's 
breast,  and  her  arms  clasped  him  wildly. 

"  Oh,  Zoroaster,  my  beloved,  my  beloved!  Say  not 
any  more  that  I  am  unfaithful,  for  I  have  been  faithful 
even  unto  death,  and  I  shall  be  with  you  beyond  the 
stars  forever!" 

"  Beyond  the  stars  and  forever!"  he  cried;  "in  the 
light  of  the  glory  of  God  most  high!" 

The  keen  sword  flashed  and  severed  Nehushta's  neck, 
and  found  its  sheath  in  her  lover's  heart;  and  the)'  fell 
down  dead  together,  and  the  slaughter  was  done. 


Tones  should  be  swelled  on  a  single  note,  E^  of  the  medium.  By  strengthen- 
ing  this  intermediate  note  the  ascending  and  descending  scales  are  sympathet- 
ically strengthened. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         231 

A  THANKSGIVING  ELOPEMENT. 


N.  S.  Emerson. 


/^UT  in  the  beautiful  country, 

^-^^     When  the  yellow  moon  was  high, 

When  the  autumn  fruits  were  garnered, 

And  the  winter  nights  were  nigh, 
Old  Farmer  Pratt  was  counting 

His  herds  of  lowing  kine, 
His  sheep  with  growing  fleeces, 

His  lazy,  fattened  swine. 

And  as  he  reckoned  slowly. 

He  paused  to  muse  awhile, 
When  two  young  voices  near  him 

Awoke  a  passing  smile. 
One  was  his  eldest  daughter, 

Priscilla,  speaking  low. 
And  the  other  was  one  of  his  neighbors. 

He  guessed,  but  he  did  not  know. 

"  I  can't!"  Priscilla  was  saying, 

**  I  can't!  it's  going  too  far; 
It  would  make  me  doubly  wretched 

To  be  deceiving  ma. 
And  father" — he  felt  the  shudder 

That  he  could  not  hear  or  see; 
And  he  said:  "I  b'lieve  Priscilla 

Is  really  afraid  of  me. 

"She's  a  skeery  thing,  like  her  mother; 
But  I  vow  I  didn't  suppose 


The  inflections  are  in  accord  luii/i  the  ,-yel'ro;i>s.  When  the  bro-^vs  are 
raised  the  voice  is  raised.  This  is  the  normal  tnoveinent  of  the  zoice  in  re- 
lation to  the  cyebro'v. — Delaumosne. 


232  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

The  words  I've  said  so  keerless 

Was  goin'  home  so  close. 
I've  laughed  about  Reuben,  and  called  him 

A  sort  of  shiftless  lad, 
But  I  never  thought  the  fellow 

Was  anything  very  bad. 

"It  seems  he's  been  coaxin'  and  teasin' 

My  Prissie  to  run  away; 
It  can't  do  no  harm  (I'm  her  father) 

To  listen  to  what  they  say. 
If  he  gives  her  up  for  fear  o'  me, 

I  don't  think  much  of  him, 
And  I  wonder,  should  Prissie  lose  him, 

Would  it  make  her  bright  eyes  dim?" 

"  Priscilla,  darling,"  'twas  Reuben, 

Speaking  soft  and  low, 
"I've  waited  in  hope  and  patience 

Two  weary  years,  you  know, 
And  loved  you  as  only  a  man  loves 

The  woman  he  means  to  wed; 
And  only  for  your  sake,  Prissie, 

No  word  have  I  ever  said 

"To  anyone  on  the  subject; 

But  to-night — now,  listen,  dear. 
We  must  have  this  matter  settled; 

I  can't  wait  another  year. 
I'll  talk  with  your  father  to-morrow, 

And  learn  his  objections  to  me." 


Singing  is  7iot  viercly  a  means  of  displaying  the  singer^s  voice  or  person;  it 
is  a  superior  language^  charged  with  the  rendering,  in  its  individual  charnt, 
of  the  greatest  creations  of  literature  and  poetry. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         233 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Priscilla  in  terror, 
"  For  then  he  would  think  that  we — 

"  That  I  had  been  talking  about  him, 

And  that  makes  him  angriest  of  all." 
Then  Reuben's  voice  grew  firmer, 

And  seemed  to  clearer  fall: 
"  Your  father  is  not  an  ogre; 

I  do  not  dread  his  wrath; 
'Tis  better  for  us  to  be  honest. 

And  keep  a  straightforward  path. 

"  But  if  he  hates  me  as  bad  as  you  think  for, 

Of  course  he'll  refuse  outright 
All  consent  to  our  ever  wedding. 

And  leave  us  no  chance  for  flight; 
So  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  one  thing; 

If  you  persistently  say 
That  I  mustn't  speak  to  your  father. 

Why,  then,  we  must  run  away." 

"Oh,  Reuben!"     "Now,  Prissie,  darling, 

I  leave  it  to  you  to  choose, 
I've  lost  my  heart  and  my  patience. 

But  my  wife  I'm  not  willing  to  lose. 
I  sha'n't  discuss  the  subject 

By  another  word  to-night, 
But  the  day  before  Thanksgiving, 

If  everything's  fair  and  bright, 

"  I'll  hitch  up  my  roan  colt  Major — " 

The  young  folks  moved  away. 
And  old  Farmer  Pratt  stared  dumbly. 


All  the  educational  systems  of  the  ivorlj  can  ha7>e  but  one  primary  aim:  to 
cultivate  an  instinctive  ability  in  the  pupil.  Instinct  is  the  force  of  habit. — 
Franklin  H.  Sargent. 


234  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

With  his  head  against  the  hay. 
Next  morning  he  watched  Priscilla, 

Her  blue  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears, 
And  her  quivering  chin  told  plainly 

That  her  heart  was  full  of  fears. 

The  day  before  Thanksgiving 

Dawned  crisp  and  bright  and  clear; 
And  Farmer  Pratt's  old  kitchen 

Was  crowded  with  good  cheer. 
All  day  the  golden  cider 

Slow  trickled  from  the  mill, 
And  all  day  long  the  farmer 

Was  thinking,  thinking  still. 

Toward  night  he  jammed  his  hat  on 

With  most  unusual  vim, 
And  went  across  the  meadow 

At  a  rapid  stride,  for  him; 
And  then,  ten  minutes  later. 

He  paused  beside  a  door 
That  he  left  in  bitter  anger 

Some  fifteen  years  before. 

Out  stepped  a  cheery  matron; 

"Why,  Brother  Pratt!  You  here! 
I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  see  you; 

Walk  in  and  take  a  cheer. 
The  weather's  getting  chilly. 

How  is  your  wife  this  fall? 
I  often  see  your  boys  round. 

Handsome,  and  strong,  and  tall." 


The  word  is  but  an  echo,  the  thought  made  extertial  and  visible,  the  ambas- 
sador of  intelligence.  Every  energetic  passion,  every  deep  sentiment,  is  ac- 
cordingly announced  by  a  sign  of  the  head,  the  hand,  or  the  eye,  be/ore  the 
word  expresses  it. — Delsarte. 


DELS  A  RTF  RECITATION  BOOK.  235 

But  wliile  he  questioned  to  himself 

If  she'd  take  Reuben's  part, 
The  outer  door  swung  slowly, 

And  in  walked  Deacon  Hart. 
The  young  fo^ks  had  asked  no  favors; 

They  knew  an  old  feud  lay 
Sinouldering  between  the  fathers, 

So  they  would  run  away. 

But  when  the  two  men  parted 

Beside  the  meadow  stile, 
Both  faces  wrinkled  kindly 

With  a  grim  and  sober  smile. 
Soon  after  came  the  roan  colt, 

Shaking  his  handsome  head; 
The  bells  were  not  on  the  harness. 

And  the  horse  seemed  to  lightly  tread. 

Priscilla  hushed  her  sobbing. 

And  hurried  down  the  stair; 
But  just  as  she  was  stepping 

Out  into  the  frosty  air, 
The  kitchen  door  fiew  open; 

Two  tallow  dips  ablaze 
Filled  her  with  sudden  terror. 

And  Reuben  with  amaze. 

But  her  father's  voice  was  calling: 

"  Here,  John,  you  hurry  now. 
Go  get  the  ewe  and  cossets; 

Drive  round  the  brindle  cow; 


Dflsarte  teaches  that  the  relations  between  the  physical  ami  the psychica! are  j 
so  intricate  and  subtle  that  ivhateTer  /oftn    0/  expression    is  given  to  one  re- 
flects itself  uf>on  the  other.     As  the  body  assumes  tnean  and  grovelling  atti- 
tudes^ or  majestic  and  beautiful  ones,  so  the  mind  will  be  influenced. — Mrs. 
EuNA  Snell  Poulson.  I 
+ 


236  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Roll  out  that  barrel  of  apples, 
And  the  white  Chenangoes  fine; 

And  bring  a  keg  of  cider, 
And  a  jug  of  currant  wine. 

"  Willie,  tie  up  a  feather-bed, 

And  put  the  pillows  in; 
And,  mother,  where's  the  pillow-slips, 

And  sheets,  and  quilts,  and  things? 
Bring  out  the  new  rose  blankets 

That  in  the  clothes-press  lay; 
Prissie  must  have  her  setting  out — 

She's  going  to  run  away." 

Imagine  all  the  wonder 

That  from  this  was  sure  to  come! 
Imagine  tears  and  kisses 

Thrown  in  ad  libituvi! 
And  two  shame-faced  young  people 

Waiting  another  day, 
And  then  concluding  quietly 

That  they  wouldn't  run  away. 

The  happiest  Thanksgiving 

That  e'er  New  England  knew 
Dawned  on  the  village  homes  next  day. 

Where  those  hearts  beat  warm  and  true. 
Old  feuds  were  all  forgotten, 

Old  troubles  laid  aside, 
And  Reuben  lived  to  bless  the  day 

He  won  his  happy  bride. 


Two  things  are  to  be  observed  in  the  consonant:  its  explosion  and  its  prepara- 
tion. The  t,d.p,  etc.,  keep  tts  ^uniting:  the  ch,  7%  ji prepare  themselves,  as 
"  vvvenez.''"'     The  vocals  ne,  me,  re,  are  muffled. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK. 

MARY  JANE  AND  I. 


237 


Annie  Rothwell. 


T  WAS  out  last  night  in  the  orchard,  a-thinkin'  of 
Mary  Jane, 

Leanin'  over  the  gate  at  sundown,  when  the  gal  hap- 
pened up  the  lane. 

She  kind  o'  stopped  short  when  she  saw  me — "Good 
evenin.',  marm,"  she  said  ; 

While  her  cheeks  took  on  a  color  like  the  apple-blos- 
soms overhead. 

Mary  Jane's  my  next  neighbor's  daughter  :  she's  power- 
ful set  on  my  Joe  ; 

I  haven't  got  much  agin  her — she's  a  good  enough  gal 
as  gals  go, 

But  she  can't  make  a  shirt  if  you  paid  her,  and  her  but- 
ter's none  o'  the  best  ; 

I'd  been  stiff,  I  own — never  said  so,  but  I  think  that 
she  somehow  guessed. 

So  she  blushed  and  stammered  a  little  when  she  found 

me  there  at  the  gate 
'Stead  o'  Joe.     I  felt  ugly,  forgettin'  that  every  young 

thing  seeks  its  mate. 
She's  on  one  side  and  I  on  t'other,  with  a  river  o'  years 

between — 
I  was   nine  and   forty  last  birthday,  and  Mary  Jane  is 

nineteen. 

And  we  stood  and  looked  at  each  other,  and  couldn't 
find  much  to  say. 


The  slide  always  falls  on   the  accented  syllable  of  the  ivord.—V.t.^sxs  B. 
Monroe. 


238         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Joe's   my  youngest — the   feelin's  o'  twenty   years  can't 

take  second  place  in  a  day. 
So  the  best   I  could  do  was — nothin'  but  keep  tongue 

and  temper  still  ; 
Till   suddenly,   out    from    the    thicket,   there  started  a 

whippoorwill, 

Suddent  and  loud  and  throbbin',  and  a  lump  riz  up  in 
my  throat, 

As  it  all  came  back  in  a  minute  how  I'd  heerd  that  self- 
same note 

The  night  Rube  kissed  me  and  asked  me,  and  I  didn't 
tell  him  no — 

Oh,  my  heart  !  how  well  I  remember  it  all,  though  it's 
thirty  years  ago. 

The   long  day   of  hard  work  and  hard   livin',  and   the 

evenin'  when  I  could  slip 
To  the  turn  of  the  road  and  get  full  pay  in  the  touch  of 

my  Reuben's  lip, 
And  the   heavy  scoldin'  borne  cheerful,  because  'twas 

for  Reuben's  sake. 
It's    a    lovely    dream— oh,   the   pity   that    the    daylight 

comes  and  we  wake  ! 

And  afterward,  when   together  we  fought  for  our  daily 

bread 
On   the  little  rough    farm    on   the   hillside,  in   a  home 

scarce  more  than  a  shed — 
What  did  Reuben  care  for  my  sewin',  if  I  never  had  set 

a  stitch. 
And  we'd  eaten  dry  bread  for  ever,  if  we'd  had  to  part 

to  be  rich  ? 


The  mouth  is  a  vital  thermometer,  the    nose  a  moral  thermometer.— 'D'Ei.- 

SARTE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  239 

It's  all  over — I'm  widowed  this  ten  years.    The  best  farm 

in  the  county's  my  own  ; 
And  I  wished   I  was  back  on   ten   acres  as  I  leaned  on 

that  gate— alone. 
It's    all    over — but    still    I've    been    happy,  so   maybe   I 

shouldn't  complain. 
Then  the  thought  shivered  thro'  me  like  lightnin' — ought 

I  grudge  it  to  Mary  Jane  ? 

Life  comes  pretty  hard  on  most  of  us,  and  it's  none  too 

sweet  at  the  best  ; 
Aint  it  rather  a  shame  when  our  own  is  spoiled  to  wish 

the  same  by  the  rest  ? 
My  Joe  is  his  father's  born  ditto — can  the  gal  help  her 

likes  more  than  me? 
She's  nineteen,  and  a  rosebud — Joe's  twenty-one  ;  what 

hinders  the  lad  to  see  ? 

Can  I  keep  the  dews  from  fallin',  or  forbid  the  growth 

of  the  pine  ? 
Just  as  soon  as  stop  young  folks  from  lovin'  because  I'm 

forty-nine  ! 
Can  I  blame  'em  for  likin'  the  fresh  sweet  cup  that  only 

young  folks  can  taste. 
When  Fd  give  all  I've  got  for  that  one  June  night  with 

Reuben's  arm  round  my  waist  ? 

So    the  whippoorwill   taught   me   my  lesson.  I  choked 

down  the  jealous  spite, 
And  I  got  my  reward  in  a  soft,  shy  smile,  for  I  kissed 

Mary  Jane  good-night, 
Though  I  swallowed  a   sob  as  I  turned  away  when  Joe 

came  over  the  hill. 
Well,  it's  hardly  likely  they'll  ever  know  what  they  owe 

to  that  whippoorwill. 


There  should  bt  but  one  climax;  all  else  niusl  ascend  toward  it  or  descend 
from  ;■/.— Genevieve  Stebbins. 


240         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 
DROPS. 


Peter  Robertson. 


T  T  is  a  bright  summer  day  in  the  valley.  The  stream 
goes  dancing  down,  and  the  merry  globules  hud- 
dled all  together  are  laughing  as  they  pass  away  to  the 
deep  sea,  to  mingle  with  millions  of  other  drops  gath- 
ered from  all  sorts  of  places.  There  are  happy  drops, 
escaped  from  the  caverns  and  the  rocks,  from  the  depths 
of  the  darkness  under  the  mountains;  there  are  unwill- 
ing drops,  that  in  the  morning  lay  on  the  rose  leaves  and 
took  the  hues  of  dainty  beauty  from  their  tints;  un- 
happy drops,  that  long  again  to  be  mist,  and  hang  over 
the  mountain-tops  and  creep  among  the  fragrant  pines; 
gay  and  laughing  drops,  that  have  been  tumbling  over 
the  boulders  in  and  out  of  shadow,  looking  forward  to 
the  hour  when  they  should  rush  out  into  the  valley  and 
be  free  at  last.  Among  the  joyous  group  one  little  drop 
goes  silently  and  sadly  along,  jostled  by  the  others,  but 
heeding  not  their  merriment. 

"  Why  are  you  sad  ?"  asks  one  who  has  seen  the  glo- 
rious sunlight  but  a  few  hours.  "  Are  you  not  glad  to  be 
out,  dancing  and  sparkling  like  the  rest  of  u§  ?  Did 
you  love  your  dark  chamber  in  the  rocks  so  much  ?" 

"  My  chamber  was  darker  than  the  rocks,"  answers 
the  other.  "  I  am  a  tear  from  a  mother's  heart,  a 
mother  who  wept  for  her  child." 

A  little  way  off  two  other  drops  fall  together,  drawn 
by  mutual  sorrow.  They  wander  down  side  by  side, 
neither  speaking.  The  gay  flood  dashes  on  the  banks, 
flashes  over  rocks,  makes  a  feint  of  climbing  up  to  seize 


A  voice,  however  poiverful  it  7iiay  be,  should  be  inferior  to  the  power  which 
animates  it. — Delsarte. 


/ 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.-  241 

the  flowers  that  bloom  above  it,  and  rattles  laughingly 
away.  Some  of  the  drops,  too  venturesome,  throw  them- 
selves up  at  the  bending  sprays  of  green,  are  caught  and 
lost.  But  through  it  all  the  two  sad  little  things,  holding 
on  to  one  another,  float  on  toward  the  sea. 

"What  are  you  ?"  asks  one  at  last.  "  Did  you  come 
from  the  mist  or  from  the  earth  ?  Were  you  a  dew- 
drop  this  morning,  or  did  you  fall  from  the  clouds  ?" 

"  I  am  none  of  these,"  it  answers.  "  I  am  from  a 
woman's  bright  eye.  I  am  the  tear  of  a  woman  for  a 
false  lover." 

"  Grieve  not!  Be  not  so  sad.  I — am  the  tear  of  the 
girl  who  got  him  /" 


THE  VOLUNTEER  ORGANIST. 


S.  W.  Foss. 


"  I  "HE  gret  big  church  wuz  crowded  full  uv  broadcloth 

■*■       an'  uv  silk, 
An'  satins  rich  as  cream  thet  grows  on  our  ol'  brindle's 

milk; 
Shined   boots,  biled   shirts,  stiff  dickeys  an'  stove-pipe 

hats  were  there. 
An'  doods  'ith  trouserloons  so  tight  they  couldn't  kneel 

in  prayer. 

The  elder  in  his  poolpit  high,  said,  as  he  slowly  riz: 
"Our  organist  is  kep'  to  hum,  laid  up  'ith  roomatiz. 
An'  as  we  hev  no  substitoot,  as  Brother  Moore  ain't  here. 


T/te  loivered  bro7v  signi/ies  retention^  repulsion:  it  is  the  signification  of  a 
closed  door.  The  elevated  broiv  means  the  of<en  door.  The  mind  opens  to  let 
in  the  light  or  to  allow  it  to  escape. — Dei.aimosne. 


242         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Will  some  'un  in   the  congergation  be  so  kind's  to  vol- 
unteer ?" 

An'  then   a  half-starved,    shattered   tramp,  of  wretched 

shabby  style, 
Give  an  interductory  cough,  an'  sadly  staggered  up  the 

aisle. 
Then  thro'  thet  holy  atmosphere  there  crep'  a  sense  er 

sin, 
As  tho'  some  strange,  unholy  thing  had  unseen  entered  in. 

Then  Deacon  Purington  exclaimed,  his  teeth  all  set  on 

edge: 
"This   man   purfanes  the  house  er  God!      W'y  this  is 

sacrilege!" 
The  tramp  didn't  hear  a  word  he  said,  but  slouched  'ith 

stumblin'  feet, 
An'  slowly  staggered  up  the  steps,  an*  gained  the  organ 

seat. 

Then  he  went  pawin'  thro'  the  keys,  an'  soon  there  rose 

a  strain 
Thet  seemed  to  jest  bulge  out  the  heart,  an'  'lectrify  the 

brain; 
An'  then   he  slapped  down  on  the  thing  'ith  hands  an' 

head  an'  knees. 
He  slam-dashed  his   hull  body  down  kerflop  upon  the 

keys. 

The  organ  roared,  the  music  flood  went  sweepin'  high 

an'  dry, 
It  swelled  into  the  rafters,  an'  reached  out  into  the  sky, 


I  deny  that  the  therinometric  action  of  the  shoulder  undergoes  the  least 
alteration  in  the  aristocratic  -world.  I  deny  explicitly  that  this  agent  proves 
less  expressive  and  less-  truthful  there  than  in  the  street.— XiiiSKKTV.. 


^ 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.         243 

The  ol'  church  shook  an'  staggered,  an'  seemed  to  reel 

an'  sway, 
An'    the    elder    shouted    "Glory!"    an'    I    yelled    out 

"  Hooray!" 

An'  then    he   tried  a  tender  strain   thet  melted  in  our 

ears, 
Thet  brought  up  blessed  memories  and  drenched  'em 

down  'ith  tears  ; 
An'  we  dreamed  uv  ol'-time  kitchens,  'ith  Tabby  on  the 

mat, 
Uv  home  an'  luv  an'  baby-days,  an'  mother,  an'  all  that! 

An'  then  he  struck  a  streak  uv  hope — a  song  from  souls 

forgiven — 
Thet   burst   from    prison-bars  uv   sin,  an'   stormed    the 

gates  uv  heaven  ; 
The  morning  stars  they  sung  together,  no  soul  wuz  left 

alone  ; 
We    felt   the    universe   wuz   safe,  an'   God    wuz   on   his 

throne! 

An'   then   a   wail    uv   deep   despair  an'   darkness  come 

again, 
An'    long,  black   crape   hung   on    tlie   doors   uv   all   the 

homes  uv  men; 
No  love,  no  light,  no  joy,  no  hope,  no  songs  uv  glad  de- 
I  light. 

An'  then — the  tramp,  he  staggered  down  an'  passed  into 

the  night! 

But  we  knew  he'd  tol'  his  stor}',  tho'  he  never  spoke  a 
word, 


Unconscious  constriction  is  the  element  of  ivhich  we  most  need  to  rid  our- 
sehes.  Il'e  must  overcome  this  rigidity  in  the  muscles, yor  it  means  frigidity 
in  the  emotions  and  their  expression. — Mks.  Edna  Snhi.l  Poi  i.sdN. 


244         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

An'   it   wuz   the   saddest  story  thet   our  ears  had  ever 

heard; 
He  had  tol'  his  own  life's  history,  an'  no  eye  was  dry  thet 

day, 
Wen  the  elder  rose  an'  simply  said  :  ''  My  brethren,  let 

us  pray." 


MICKEY  FREE'S  LETTER  TO  MRS 

M'GRA. 

Charles  Lever.     Arranged  by  John  A.  MacCabe. 

[As  Mr.  Free's  letter  may  be  as  great  a  curiosity  to  you  as  it  has 
been  to  me,  I  will  read  it.  The  occasional  interruption  to  the  current 
of  the  letter  arises  from  Mike  having  used  the  pen  of  a  comrade,  writ- 
ing being,  doubtless,  an  accomplishment  forgotten  in  the  haste  of  pre- 
paring Mr.  Free  for  the  world;  and  the  amanuensis  has,  in  more  than 
one  instance,  committed  to  paper  more  than  was  meant  by  the  author.] 

"  ]VT^^'  ^^'^■^^'~'r^^'"-^"'-2ges,  sure  I  need  not  be 
treating  her  that  way.  Now  just  say,  Mrs. 
Mary  ;  ay,  that'll  do:— Mrs.  Mary,  it's  maybe  surprised 
you'll  be  to  be  reading  a  letter  from  your  humble  ser- 
vant, sitting  on  the  top  of  the  Alps. — Arrah,  maybe  its 
not  the  Alps;  but  sure  she'll  n^ver  know — foment  the 
whole  French  army,  with  Bony  himself  and  all  his  jin- 
nerals — God  be  between  us  and  harm — ready  to  murther 
every  mother's  son  of  us,  av  they  was  able,  Molly,  dar- 
lin';  but,  with  the  blessing  of  Providence,  and  Lord 
Wellington,  and  Misther  Charles,  we'll  bate  them  yet,  as 
we  bate  them  afore. 

"  My  lips  is  wathering  at  the  thought  o'  the  plunder. 
I  often  think  of  Tim  Riley,  that  was  hanged  for  sheep- 
stealing;  he'd  be  worth  his  weight  in  gold  here. 
4- — — 


I/itt  looking  at  a  ivotnan  I  clasp  viy  haniis,  and  at  the  same  time  raise  my 
shoulders,  there  ts  no  longer  any  doubt  of  my  feeling:  and  instinctively  every 
one  will  say:  ''  He  loves  her  trulyy—De.hSAKTK. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         245 

"  Misther  Charles  is  now  a  captain — devil  a  less — and 
myself  might  be  somethin'  that  same,  but  ye  see  I  was 
always  of  a  bashful  nature,  and  recommended  the 
masther  in  my  place.  *  He's  mighty  young,  Misther 
Charles  is,'  says  my  Lord  Wellington  to  me — *  he's  mighty 
young,  Mr.  Free.'  *  He  is,  my  lord,'  says  I ;  '  he's 
young,  as  you  obsarve,  but  he's  as  much  divilment  in 
him  as  many  that  might  be  his  father.'  '  That's  some- 
thin',  Mr.  Free,'  says  my  lord;  'ye  say  he  comes  of  a 
good  stock?'  'The  rale  sort,  my  lord,'  says  I;  'an  ould, 
ancient  family,  that's  spent  every  sixpence  they  had  in 
treating  their  neighbors.  My  father  lived  near  them  for 
years' — you  see,  Molly,  I  said  that  to  season  the  dis- 
coorse.  '  We'll  make  him  a  captain,'  says  my  lord;  '  but, 
Mr.  Free,  could  we  do  nothing  for  you?'  '  Nothing,  at 
present,  my  lord.  When  my  friends  come  into  power,' 
says  I, '  they'll  think  of  me.  There's  manj^a  little  thing 
to  give  away  in  Ireland,  and  they  often  find  it  mighty 
hard    to  find  a    man   for    lord-lieutenant;    and   if    that 

same,  or  a  tide-waiter's  place  was  vacant' 'Just  tell 

me,'  says  my  lord.  'It's  what  I'll  do,'  says  I.  'And 
now,  wishing  you  happy  dreams,  I'll  take  my  lave.* 
Just  so,  Molly,  it's  hand  and  glove  we  are.  A  pleasant 
face,  agreeable  manners,  seasoned  with  natural  modesty, 
and  a  good  pair  of  legs,  them's  the  gifts  to  push  a  man's 
way  in  the  world.  And  even  witli  the  ladies — but  sure 
I'm  forgetting,  my  masther  was  proposed  for,  and  your 
humble  servant,  too,  by  two  illigant  creatures  in  Lis- 
bon; but  it  wouldn't  do,  Molly, — it's  higher  nor  that 
we'll  be  looking — rale  princesses,  the  devil  a  less. 

"Tell    Kitty  Hannigan  I  hope  she's  well;  she  was  a 
disarving  young  woman  in  her  situation  in  life.     Shusey 


A  bow  juust  not  be  always  bent;  and,  on  the  same princ i fie,  the  body  should 
not  be  always  tense. — Genevieve  Stebbins. 


246  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

Dogherty,  at  the  cross-roads — if  I  don't  forget  the 
name — was  a  good-looking  slip,  too;  give  her  my  affec- 
tionate salutations,  as  we  say  in  the  Portuguese.  I  hope 
I'll  be  able  to  bear  the  inclementuous  nature  of  your 
climate,  when  I  go  back;  but  I  can't  expect  to  stay 
long — for  Lord  Wellington  can't  do  without  me.  We 
play  duets  on  the  guitar  together  every  evening.  The 
masther  is  shouting  for  a  blanket,  so  no  more  at  present 
from, 

"  Your  very  affectionate  friend, 

"  Mickey  Free. 
"  P.S. — I  don't  write  this  myself,  for  the  Spanish 
tongue  puts  me  out  o'  the  habit  of  English.  Tell 
Father  Rush,  if  he'd  study  the  Portuguese,  I'd  use  mj- 
interest  for  him  with  the  bishop  of  Toledo.  It's  a 
country  he'd  like.  " 


THE  B.  B.  ROMANCE. 


Edgar  Fawcett.     Arranged  by  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 

[Mr.  Buntling,  a  wealthy  pork-dealer,  and  his  wife  have  just  returned 
from  Europe  and  are  spending  a  season  in  New  York  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a  notable  match  for  their  daughter  Jane."~  Mrs.  B.  gives  a 
ball  to  introduce  themselves  into  society.  The  guests  arrive,  and  Jane, 
soon  wearying  of  the  idle  talk,  goes  alone  into  the  conservatory  say- 
ing:] 

JANE.  How  bitter  sounds  their  frigid  worldliness!    I 
loathe  it  all. 
I  act  a  part,  and  am  not  what  I  seem. 
These  six  bouquets,  sent  by  myself,  are  borne 
As  mask  and  sham,  concealing  my  true  will. 

* ; -; 4- 

T       There  is  very  little  harmony  or  relation  between  the  exquisite  Joints  0/  a  re-  T 
fined  nature^  the  swift  and  the  flexible  movements   0/  an  elegant  organisTfi, 

\  and  the  evolutions  clumsily  executed  by  torpid  limbs,  ankylosed,  as  it  were, 
by  hard  and  constant  labor. — Delsarte.  I 

jiZ + 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         247 

For  I  desire  no  vain  supremacy 

In  ranks  of  fashion,  but  my  soul  has  bowed 

In  reverent  homage  to  Leander  Briggs. 

Obscure  is  my  Leander;  we  have  met 

But  thrice.     He  is  a  simple  dry-goods  clerk, 

Yet  his  pure,  lofty  soul  towers  high  above 

The  gross  necessities  of  dry-goods;  he 

Is  nobly  eminent,  a  man  of  men. 

Would  he  were  here  to-night! 

Leander  Briggs.  Jane,  loveliest  of  all  womankind!  I 
dare 
To  greet  thee;  I  am  insolently  here! 

Jane.  Here!     Thou,    Leander?     Thou    art    here    to- 
night ? 

Leander,  I  am. 

Jane.   By  invitation  ? 

Leander.  Nay,  without. 

Jane.  What  means  this  unsurpassed  audacity? 

Leander.  Nay,  hearken  ere  thou  blame.     Since    that 
sweet  hour 
When  thou  didst  purchase  two  yards  of  pink  silk 
Of  Meares  and  Company,  a  fierce,  wild  flame 
Seems  burning  this  poor  heart  of  mine  to  ash. 
No  more  for  me  my  boarding-house  allures 
When  the  long  dining-table  buzzes  high 
With  social  chat,  and  gossip  thrives  elate. 
No  more  to  me  the  obdurate  beefsteak 
Nor  yet  the  sinewy  chop  seem  tender  viands, 
For  healthful  appetite  has  fled  my  life. 
Never  again  the  unpalatable  bread, 
The  inferior  butter,  the  imporous  tart, 
The  gravy  turned  conglomerate,  nor  the  soup 


Encourage  attitudes  that  are  sympathetic^  royal,  and  signijicaitt  o/ spirit- 
ual heroism,  and  you  uiill  foster  the  sentiments  that  these  attitudes  symbolize. 
—  Mrs.  Edna  Snell  Poulson. 


248        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

O'erfihned  with  lucid  grease,  can  satisfy. 

The  huge  emporium,  with  its  clamors  coarse, 

Its  mercantile  vulgarity,  its  yells 

Of   "  cash,"    its  haggling   customers,  its    air 

Gf  sordid  discipline,  repels  and  shocks. 

Thy  face,  thine  e3'es. 

Thy  presence,  haunt  me  with  distracting  force  ! 

And  therefore  I  am  here.     O  pity  me! 

Jane.  That  morn,  when  I  made  purchase  of  pink  silk 
Of  Meares  and  Company,  I  will  avow. 
Was  bright  with  new  and  strange  experience. 

Leander.  Again  didst  thou  appear.     Again  pink  silk 
I  measured  with  unsteady  hand. 

Jane.  True.     And  once  more  we  met!     'Twas  Friday 
last. 

Leander.  Thou  dost  recall  the  day?     O  happiness! 

0  day  most  memorable!     O  Broadway  car. 
Wherein  we  met!     O  fateful  interview! 

Jane.  I  learned   thy  name,  and   answered  with  mine 

own. 
Leander.  We   left    the    car.     We    strolled    in    quiet 
streets, 
Enthralled  by  dreamy  converse,  each  with  each. 

Jane.  'Twas  terribly  imprudent.     I  repent 
Mine  act.     I  told  thee  all.     No  detail  did  I  spare. 

1  told  thee  of  my  proud  and  cold  mamma; 
I  told  thee  of  my  democratic  sire. 

Leander.  Thou  didst.     And  eagerly  I  listened,  too; 
And  ere  we  parted  I  had  made  resolve 
To  win  thee  as  my  bride,  and  sworn  my  love. 

Jane.  We  cannot  wed.     Thine  act  is  desperate 
In  coming  hither.     If  mamma  should  dream 


Gesture  corresponds  to  the  soicl,  to  the  heart:  language  to  the  life,  to  the 
thought,  to  the  mitid.  The  life  and  the  mind  being  subordinate  to  the  heart, 
to  the  soul,  gesture  is  the  chie/ organic  agent. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  249 

What  man  thou  really  art,  her  wrath  would  fall 

Alike  on  me  and  thee  with  fearful  weight. 

She  wills  that  I  shall  wed  some  haughtier  name, 

Some  man  with  old  Dutch  blood,  though  lean  of  purse. 

Wherefore  tarry  not. 

But  go  at  once,  nor  e'en  delay  to  taste 

The  succulent  oyster  and  the  bronze-brown  quail. 

Leander.  Quail    me    no    quails,   O   thou   supremelj 
loved! 
Nay,  oyster  me  no  oysters,  cruel  heart! 
Is  love  so  weak  in  thy  chill  maiden  breast 
That  fear  can  slay  it  thus,  nor  lightly  let 
One  meagre  smile  pass  faintly  o'er  thy  lips? 
No  timorous  palpitance  of  moistened  lid, 
No  transitory  touch  of  palm  to  palm. 
No  last  brief  look  of  love  immeasurable. 
Blossoming  between  thine  eyelids  and  thine  eyes  ? 

Jane.  Whence    hast    thou    caught    such    warm-hued 
trick  of  speech  ? 
Thine  eloquence  is  like  the  bloomful  chintz 
That  florid,  sanguine,  gorgeous,  hangs  for  sale 
Above  thy  counter  at  the  Meares  bazaar. 

Leander.   Let  me  go  hence.     I  think  I  shall  not  live 
A  great  while,  now.     When  thou  shalt  hear  the  news 
That  I  am  dead  at  Number  Twenty-Blank 
West  Thirty-Seventh  Street,  front  room,  third  floor, 
I  pray  of  you  to  bear  it  well  in  mind 
That  I  particularly  do  request 
No  flowers  be  sent.     Such  act  were  mockery. 
Live  shalt  thou,  for  no  grief  would  make  thee  die. 

Jane.  Great  grief  would  melt  my  heart.     Of  this  thoo. 
art  sure. 


In  distinction  equally  /roin  artifice  and  /rom  nature^  art  grasps  the  essen- 
tial with  a  noble  disregard  of  the  accidental,  and  finely  subordinates  what  is 
particular  to  what  is  general. — Rev.  W.  R.  Algek. 


\ 


250         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

Leander.  Sure  am  I  not.     Thou  speakest  weightless 
words.  * 

Jane.  As  an  ice-cream  on  a  warm  plate  am  I. 

Leander.  Thou  meanest  that  thy  spirit  bids  me  stay? 

Jane.  I  neither  bid  thee  stay  nor  bid  thee  go. 

Leander.  So  shall  I  then  not  heed,  imploring  thee 
To  fly  with  me  this  very  night  and  seek 
A  clergyman,  who  straight  will  make  us  one. 

Jane.   Mamma  draws  near.    What  folly  hast  thou  said.'' 

Leander.  I  have  said   no  folly.     Dost  thou  deem  it 
such  ? 

Jane.  Should  I  do  this  mad  thing,  I   must  get  wraps. 

Leander.  Sealskin  and  wool  thou  verily  must  get. 

Jane.  Get  them  I  would  if  courage  failed  me  not. 

Leander.  Dear  acquiescent  Jane  !     And  yet  I  trace 
Reluctant  resignation  in  your  phrase. 

Jane.   Farewell,    the    great     church-organ's     mellow 
boom; 
Farewell,  the  long  train  shimmering  up  the  aisle; 
Farewell,  the  point-lace  drapery  richly  hung 
Down  o'er  the  neck  bediamonded  bright; 
Farewell,  the  attendant  maidens,  the  bouquets, 
The  subsequent  reception — farewell,  all! 
Well  do  I  fare,  perchance,  in  thy  true  love. 
Since  brides  that  have  no  love  like  thine  fare  ill. 
Yet  sweet  it  were  to  wed  thee  not  by  stealth, 
But  openly,  engirt  with  joyful  guests, 
And  feel,  departing  in  my  travelling-robe, 
A  storm  of  slippers  pelt  the  carriage-roof. 

Leander.  Still  thou    wilt    go,   heeding   thy  promise 
given. 

Jane.  Yes,  I  will  go.     Let's  haste. 


Lacordaire  spoke  magnificently.  He  fnierested,  he  aroused  admiration, 
but  did  not  persuade.  His  organism  was  rebeilious  to  gesture.  He  ■was  the 
artist  ofi language. — Delsarte. 

4, ^ 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  251 

PET  AND  BIJOU. 


Helen  Mar  Bean. 


"  l\/r  Y  dear,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you, 

And  the  dear  |dogs!     How  perfectly  sweet; 
But  you  look  scared.   ,  What  can  be  the  matter? 
You  are  covered  with  mud  from  the  street." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  am  wholly  exhausted; 

Do  let  me  a  moment  recline; 
And,  Julia  dear,  if  you  would  give  me 

Just  the  tiniest,  wee  drop  of  wine. 

"  Ah,  thanks;  I  am  sure  'twill  revive  me, 
I've  been  nearly  frightened  to  death; 

I'll  tell  you,  my  dear,  all  about  it. 

When  I've  fully  recovered  my  breath. 

**  You  know  I  am  fearfully  nervous, 

And  Pet,  too,  has  seemed  ill  of  late; 
He  wheezes  and  pants  when  he's  walking, 

So  I  sent  out  for  old  Doctor  Waite, 

"  Who  felt  of  my  pulse  for  a  moment. 

Then  nodded,  and  looked  very  wise, 
And  said  in  an  unfeeling  manner, 

'  What  you  all  need  is  more  exercise! ' 

"  *  We  go  out  each  day  in  the  carriage,' 

I  said,  but  he  pooh-poohed  at  that. 
**  You  must  walk  more,  my  dear,  young  lady,' 

Then  he  hastily  took  up  his  hat. 

"  So  early  this  morning  we  started 

('Twas  really  a  great  sacrifice) 
To  take  for  myself  and  my  darlings 

What  the  doctor  prescribed,  'exercise.' 


A  modifying  phrase  reverts  by  its  fitch    to  the  clause  or  word  modi/ltd.- 
Lewis  B.  SIonroe. 


252        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  The  morning  was  perfectly  charming, 
And  my  costume  so  stylish  and  new; 

I  flattered  myself  we  were  striking, 
As  we  walked  down  the  broad  avenue. 

"  Pet's  chain  was  attached  to  my  bracelet, 
Just  here,  on  this  broad  golden  band; 

And  to  Bijou  I  fastened  a  ribbon 

Which  I  carelessly  held  in  my  hand. 

"  'Twas  really  amusing  to  see  them 

Look  down  on  the  poor  dogs  they  met; 

Bijou  was  so  proud  and  defiant, 
Quite  disdainful  my  dear  little  Pet. 

"  The  rogues  were  so  wild  with  excitement, 
I  scarcely  could  keep  on  my  feet. 

When  all  of  a  sudden  Pet's  chain  broke. 
And  away  he  dashed  into  the  street! 

"Just  try  and  imagine  my  feelings — 

But  you  cannot,  I'm  sure,  my  dear  Ju, — 

When  for  dear  little  Pet  I  was  looking, 
I  lost  hold  of  precious  Bijou! 

"  And  just  at  that  dreadful  moment 

I  saw  a  big  team  going  by; 
Oh!  how  my  poor  heart  sank  within  me 

As  I  heard  a  loud  bark  and  a  cry. 

*'  Quick  into  the  street  from  the  sidewalk 

I  ran,  I  might  well  say  I  flew. 
Frightened  almost  out  of  my  senses; 

I  felt  sure  it  was  Pet  or  Bijou. 


Ra7ngnan,  inferior  intellectually  to  Lacordaire,  prepared  his  audience  by 
his  attitude,  touched  thetn  by  the  general  expression  of  his  face,  fascinated 
them  by  his  gaze..    He  was  the  artist  of  gesture. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  253 

"  A  great  crowd  of  people  had  gathered 

Round  a  form  all  covered  with  dirt, 
And  I  never,  my  dear,  was  so  thankful 

When  I  found  that  my  pets  were  unhurt. 

"'Who  was  injured?'  you  ask,  my  dear  Julia, 

Oh,  a  poor  little  child  of  the  street, 
Who  had  strayed  from  some  dismal,  old  alley, 

With  patched  clothes,  and  bare  little  feet. 

*'  He  had  a  leg  broken,  or  something, 

I  didn't  have  time  to  inquire. 
But  ran  to  my  poor  little  treasures. 

Whom  I  found  running  round  in  the  mire. 

"I  caught  up  the  mud-covered  darlings. 
And  pressed  them  both  close  to  my  breast, 

Too  thankful  to  think  of  my  costume, — 
I've  just  ruined  the  rich,  stylish  vest! 

"I  think  it's  a  shame  that  these  people 
Allow  their  young  children  to  roam; 

There  should  be  a  law  to  compel  them 
To  keep  the  poor  beggars  at  home. 

"  For,  of  course,  such  things  are  unpleasant 

For  a  lady  of  weak  nerves  like  me; 
And,  really,  it  has  quite  upset  me. 

As  you,  my  dear  Julia,  can  see. 

"But  I  kept  saying  over  and  over. 

Coming  back  on  the  broad  avenue. 
With  a  most  grateful  heart,  '  Thank  heaven, 

It  was  neither  dear  Pet  nor  Bijou!  '  " 


The  most  direct,  universal,  and  natural  mode  of  e.xf>ression  in  man  and  his 
Ivor  Id  is  visible  motion  and  its   resultant  forms,  and  attendant  colors  and 
qualities. — Fra.vklin  H.  Sargent. 
j. ^ 


254  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

A  COQUETTE  CONQUERED. 

Paul  Laurenxe  Dunbar. 

'VT'ES,  my  h'a't's  ez  ha'd  ez  stone — 
Go'  wa}',  Sam,  an'  lennne  'lone. 
No,  I  ain't  gwine  change  my  mln' — 
Ain't  gwine  ma'y  you— niiffin'  de  kin'. 

Phiny  loves  you  true  an'  deah? 
Go  ma'y  Phiny;  t\'hat  I  keer? 
Oh,  you  needn't  mou'n  an'  cry — 
I  don't  keer  how  soon  you  die. 

Got  a  present?    Whut  you  got? 
Somef'n  fu'  de  pan  er  pot? 
Huh!     Yo' sass  do  sholy  beat — 
Think  I  don't  git  'nough  to  eat? 

Whut's  dat  un'neaf  3^0'  coat? 
Looks  des  lak  a  little  shoat. 
'Tain't  no  possum!     Bless  de  Lamb! 
Yes,  it  is,  you  rascal,  Sam! 

Gin  it  to  me!    Whut  you  say? 
Ain't  you  sma't  now!     Oh,  go  'way! 
[Pantomime  of  avoiding  Arm.] 
Possum  do  look  mighty  nice, 
But  you  ax  too  big  a  price. 

Tell  me,  is  you  talkin'  true, 

Dat's  de  gal's  whut  ma'ies  you? 

Come  back,  Sam;  now  whah's  you  gwine? 

Co'se  you  know's  dat  possum's  mine! 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


255 


THE  SWORD  DRILL. 


'■'THE   CHARGE   OF   THE   LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


Anna  B.  Webb. 


T^HIS  is  designed  for  16  girls  in  costume  of  navy 
blue,  made  with  zouave  jacket  and  white  vest, 
wearing  military  caps,  and  carrying  wooden  swords 
covered  with  silver  tinsel. 

The  music  to  accompany  the  movements  should  be 
in  good  march  time,  and  spirited. 


y 


/ 


./■ 


TED 
Diagram  I. 


I.  In  two  companies  thej'^  advance  from  opposite  sides 
of  stage,  meeting  partners  at  B,  Diagram  I.  March  to 
front,  E,  in  couples.  Give  military  salute  with  left 
hands  and  separate. 

II.  No.  I  marches  E — D — C;  No.  2  marches  E — F — A. 
Lines  turning  at  C  and  A,  follow  dotted  lines  across  to 
F  and  D.  Turn  at  these  points  and  repeat  the  move- 
ment. 

III.  Companies   coming    tlie    third    time   to  C   and   A 


The  tnanagenient  of  the  ivrisi  is  t\f  i^reat  iinfiartance,  ns  u/'Oii  that  iie/>e>i{{s\ 
the  elastic  carriage  of  the  haiui.      The  nervous  force,  ivhich  flows  i/ou>n  the 
artn.  should   be    held  at   the  wrist  and  prevented  from    over-energizing  the 
hand. — Gknevievk  Stebbins. 


4* 


256  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

meet  partners  at  centre,  G,  and   turn   off  to  D  and  F. 
Repeat. 

15,  14,  13,  12,  II,  10, 

9,     8,     7,     6,     5, 

4,     3.     2,     I. 

Diagram  II, 

IV.  Turn  on  F  and  D  and  around  the  square  to  B, 
where  the  entire  company  falls  into  single  line,  march 
G — E — D — C — B — A — F.  Take  positions  according  to 
Diagram  II. 

(No.  16  can  step  behind  a  screen  until  marching  be- 
gins again.) 

V.  The  teacher,  or  a  girl  chosen  to  read  the  poem, 
now  gives  the  following  orders: 

1.  Present  Arms.  Swords  held  with  both  hands  in 
front  of  face. 

2.  Shoulder  Arms.  Swords  on  right  shoulder. 

3.  Carry  Arms.     Swords  at  right  side. 

4.  Charge.     High  overhead. 

5.  Shoulder  Arms.     Same  as  No.  2. 

6.  Ground  Arms.     Points  touch  floor. 

7.  Attack.     Overhead,  points  to  right. 

8.  Retreat.  Right  foot  thrown  back,  right  hand 
covering  face,  point  of  sword  down. 

9.  Surrender.  Fall  on  knees,  handle  of  sword  to 
audience. 

10.  Carry  Arms.     Same  as  No.  3. 

11.  Sheathe  Arms.  Swords  put  in  a  case  made  of 
stiffened  cloth  on  left  side. 

\_Mi(sic  ceascsi\ 
The  poem  is  read  and  class  go  through  it  in  panto- 
mime. 
4.- 


The  head,  considered  in  its  three  direct  poses,  presents  three  conditions  or^ 
states:  luhen  facing  the  object  conteviplated.  it  presents  the  normal  state-  bent 
forzuard  and  in  the  direction  of  the  object,  it  presents  the   concentric' state  • 
raised  and  considering  the  object  from  above,  it  presents  the  eccentric  state  —  I 
Delsarte.  ■       I 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         257 

Explanation"  of  Abbreviated    Gesture    Terms   Used 
IN   Pantomime. 
w.  b.  f.     =  weight  to  back  foot, 
w.  f.  f.      =  weight  to  front  foot, 
r.  h.  p.     =  right  hand  prone. 
1.  h.  p.      =  left  hand  prone. 
r.  h.  su.    =  right  hand  supine, 
b.  h.  su.  =  h^th  hands  supine, 
b.  h.  p.    =  both  hands  prone. 

opp.   =  opposition  of  head  and  hand. 

VI.  w-b-/-      Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  r.h.  p.  3  strokes. 
Half  a  league  omiuird. 
All  in  the  valley  of  death  b.u.m. 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 
«.././."  Charge  .'"  was  the  captain's  cry.  'iJ'stVoke.'"'^' 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply;  r.  h.  ind stroke, 
to.b.f.  Theirs  not  to  reason  why;  r.h.p. 

T^L     •         u      *    *„    V^    ^,.-.,-1    ,-/,',,.  r.h.  stroke  high  on  "do," 

Theirs  but  to  ao,  and  aie:  aescending  oii-aie." 
Into  the  valley  of  death  o.h.p. 
Rode  the  six  hundred,  opp. 

w././- Cannon  to  right  of  them,  r.h.p. 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, '.ft  /'■ 

Cannon  in  front  of  them,  b  h.  vertical. 

Volleyed  and  thundered:  hold  same  position. 
w.b.f  Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell,  i.  h.  covers /ace 

Boldly  they  rode  and  well;  b.h.u-vei. 

Into  the  jaws  of  death,  b.h.p. 

Into  the  mouth  of  hell,  2nd  stroke. 

Rode  the  six  hundred,  opp. 

Flashed  dW  their  sabres  barcSlTr'A^;?/"" 
Flashed  a.s  they  turned  in  air,  frt«.s,^r;i* 


The  history  of  ftassion  presents  three  />hnses:  first.  f<assii>n  in  its  coiiren- 
trated  form:  second,  passion  in  its  expansive  form:  third,  the  prostration 
which  follows  from  that  e.vfiansion.  In  /irof'oriion  to  the  intensity  of  the  con- 
centration will  /•«.■  the  force  of  the  exf>ansion  and  the  comflcteness  of  the  pros- 
tration that /ollo7vs.  —  STt.v.\.v.  Mackaye. 
,- '^ 


258         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Sabring  the  gunners  there,  fftouM^r!"" ""'" 
Charging  an  army,  while  ?;™'t^||f^«<^ 

All  the  world  wondered  !  i.h.&u. 
Plunged  in  the  battery-jw^/^^,  ^ZtT"^' "^^^ 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke,  2nd  stroke. 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  saft-e-stroke,  ^Ko^d^n^a ^orT"*" 

Shattered  and  sundered,  sworos  thrown  to jioor. 
Position.  Then  they  rode  back;  but  not — 

Not  the  six  hundred,  opp. 

w.f.f.  Cannon  to  right  of  them,  eyestonght. 
Cannon  to  le/l  of  them,  eyes  to  u/t. 

Cannon  behind  them ,  eyes  over  left  shoulder. 

Volleyed  and  thundered:  fiozd position. 
Slormed at  with  shot  and  shell, '^.-^°°cwrsraci. 
w.b.f.  While  horse  and  hero  /ell,  b.h.p. 

They  that  had  fought  so  well  r.  h.  overhead. 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  death,  b.h.p. 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell,  2nd s?rofce. 
All  that  was  left  of  them — b.h.su. 
Leftoi  six  hundred,  ina stroke. 

When  can  their  glory  fade?  r.h.su. 
Oh,  the  wil5  charge  they  made!  ind stroke. 
All  the  world  wondered,  b.  h.  s». 
Honor  the  charge  they  made!  r.h.su. 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 1.nd  stroke  higher. 

Noble  six  hundred!  Zrd  stroke  overhead. 

\Music  begins.'] 
At  the  command  "  recover  arms,"  each  girl  steps  back, 
takes  sword  from  floor,  and  carries  it  at  right  side. 
VII.  Left  face,  single  file  (Diagram  I.),  march  D — C — 


J  When  ive  sine:,  ^ei  us  not  fnrs;ci  that  the  f>rplude.  the  refrain,  is  tJte  sfiirit- 
j  ual  e.rfiression  of  the  sonz:  ive  must  cause  our  hearers  toforesee  hy  the  exf-res- 
I  iic:t  of  our  face  the  thoueht  and  the  words  that  are  to  foUo7v— the  auditor 
i  slonld  he  dazzled  by  a  sone  that  he  has  not  yet  heard.,  but  that  he  dinines  or 
ihinks  that  he  divines. — Delsarte. 


Z' 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  259 

B — A — F — E.  From  E,  No,  i  begins  circle,  winding  it 
smaller  on  every  round  until  she  reaches  centre.  Turn- 
ing there,  she  retraces  her  steps  until  company  is 
brought  into  one  large  circle. 

VIII.  (Diagram  I.)  Single  file.  March  B— G— E. 
Odd  numbers  file  left,  even  numbers  file  right.  Form 
two  circles,  one  within  the  other.  March  around  twice; 
the  third  time  halt  at  partners.  March,  even  numbers 
to  right,  odd  to  left,  in  and  out,  making  the  chain,  twice 
around.  Halt  at  partners.  Inner  circle  "  about  face;" 
march,  double  file,  around  circle  twice. 

IX.  (Diagram  I.)  Double  file.  March  B— G— E. 
Odd  numbers  file  right,  march  F — A — B;  even  numbers 
file  left,  march  D — C — B,  lines  meeting  at  B.  Front 
face.  March  to  front  in  straight,  solid  rank.  Company 
dividing  into  fours,  wheel,  No.  i  pivoting.  No.  4  making 
outer  circle  of  wheel.  No.  5  pivoting,  No.  8  making 
circle,  and  so  on.  Number  from  end  of  line.  Wheel 
twice.  In  third  round  stop  half  way,  back  to  audience. 
March  in  solid  rank  to  rear  of  stage.  Nos.  4,  8,  12,  16 
wheel  backward  into  straight  line,  front  face.  At  com- 
mand "  front  line  advance,"  odd  numbers  step  front, 
even  numbers  keep  position. 

X.  Music  changes  to  a  soft,  slow  melody  in  J  time. 
Swords  are  raised  slowly  overhead,  right  hand  higher 
than  left;  right  foot  advanced;  head  on  right  shoulder; 
eyes  down.  Lines  sway  slowly  from  right  to  left 
through  twelve  measures,  counting  six  to  each  move- 
ment. Swords  raised  straight  overhead;  eyes  front. 
Both  lines  advance  with  dance  movement  to  front  of 
stage.  Turn  right,  keeping  same  step;  leave  stage  in 
couples. 


Our  gesticulation  is  a  muscular  vocabulary  -which  interprets  for  us  the 
fluctuations  in  force,  energy,  and  passion,  in  thought  and  reason,  in  affec- 
tion and  volition. — Mrs.  Kona  SsEi.r,  Poulson. 


26o         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


THE  KITCHEN  CLOCK. 


John  Vance  Cheney. 


NITTING     is    the    maid    o'    the 
kitchen,  Milly; 
Doing    nothing,   sits    the    chore 

boy,  Billy; 
"  Seconds  reckoned, 
Seconds  reckoned; 
Every  minute, 
Sixty  in  it, 
Milly,  Billy, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Tick-tock,  tock-tick, 
Nick-knock,  knock-nick, 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock," 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 

Close  to  the  fire  is  rosy  Milly, 
Every    whit  as  close  and    cosy, 

Billy; 
"  Time's  a-flying. 
Worth  your  trying; 
Pretty  Milly— 
Kiss  her,  Billy! 
Milly,  Billy, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Tick-tock,  tock-tick. 
Now — now,  quick — quick! 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock," 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 

Something's  happened,  very  red 
is  Milly; 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 


261 


Billy  boy  is  looking  very  silly; 
"  Pretty  misses, 
Plenty  kisses; 
Make  it  twenty, 
Take  a  plenty, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Milly,  Billy, 
Right-left,  left-right, 
That's  right,  all  right, 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock," 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 

Weeks  gone,  still  they're  sitting,  Milly,  Billy; 
Oh,  the  winter  winds  are  wondrous  chilly; 
"  Winter  weather, 
Close  together; 
Wouldn't  tarry, 
Better  marry, 
Milly,  Billy, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Two — one,  one — two. 
Don't  wait,  'twon't  do, 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock," 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 


Winters  two  are  gone,  and  where  is  Milly? 

Spring  has  come  again,  and  where  is  Billy? ^ 

'*  Give  me  credit, 

For  I  did  it; 

Treat  me  kindly. 

Mind  you  wind  me, 

Mister  Billy,  Mistress  Milly, 


Imagine  yourself  an  artist^  your  /ace  the  clay  to  he  inoliled  into  an  e.xalted 
expression:  but^  as  with  the  artist^  a  mere  mechanical  tnoliiing  will  not  suc- 
ceed— the/ornt  must  come  from  a  high  ideal  jvithin. —  Gekkviexb  Stebbins. 


-4 


262 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


My — oh,  oh — my! 
By-by,  by-by, 

Nickety-knock,  cradle  rock," 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 


MAMMY'S  LFL'  BOY. 


H.  S.  Edwards. 


[This  recitation,  which  is  destined  to  become  very  popular,  is 
greatly  improved  by  singing  or  rather  crooning  the  stanza  beginning 
"  Byo  baby  boy,"  as  one  would  sing  it  when  trying  to  hush  a  child  to 
sleep. — Editor.] 

A'XT'HO  all  time  dodgin'  en  de  cott'n  en  de  corn? 

Mamm.y's  li'l'  boy,  mammy's  li'l'  boy! 
Who  all  time  stealin'  ole  massa's  dinner-horn? 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Byo  baby  boy,  oh  bye, 

By-o  li'l'  boy! 

Oh,  run  ter  es  mammy 

En  she  tek  'im  in  'er  arms. 

Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 
, ■ — — -^ — . — —I 

How  many  things  does  the  shoulder  reveal  by  those  slight  changes  unnoticed 
by  ignorant  persons,  and  expressing  particularly  the  delicate  and  exquisite 
charm  o/ spiritual  relations/  It  is  the  lam  of  infinitesitnal  quantities  or 
those  scarcely  perceptible  mozieinents  or  sensations  that  characterize  the /iner 
relations  of  people  ojf  culture,  of  eloquence,  of  grace,  and  of  refined  tastes.— 
Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  263 

Who  all  time  runnin'  ole  gobble  roun'  de  yard? 

Mammy's  li'l'  boy,  mammy's  li'l'  boy! 
Who  tek  'e  stick  'n  hit  ole  possum  dog  so  hard? 

Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy, 

Byo  baby  boy,  oh  bye, 
By-o  li'l'  boy! 
Oh,  run  ter  es  mammy 
En  climb  up  en  'er  lap, 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Who  all  time  stumpin'  es  toe  ergin  er  rock? 

Mammy's  li'l'  boy,  mammy's  li'l'  boy! 
Who  all  the  time  er-rippin'  big  hole  en  es  frock? 

Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Byo  baby  boy,  oh  bye, 
By-o  li'l'  boy! 
Oh,  run  ter  es  mammy 
En  she  wipe  es  li'l'  eyes, 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Who  all  time  er-losin'  de  shovel  en  de  rake? 

Mammy's  li'l'  boy,  mammy's  li'l'  boy! 
Who  all  de  time  tryin    ter  ride  'e  lazy  drake? 

Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Byo  baby  boy,  oh  bye, 
By-o  li'l'  boy! 
Oh,  scoot  fer  yer  mammy 
En  she  hide  yer  f'om  yer  ma, 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Who  all  de  time  er-trot  tin'  ter  de  kitchen  fer  er  bite? 
Mammy's  li'l'  boy,  mammy's  li'l'  boy! 


The  man  who  threatens  with  the  shoulder  is  more  passionate:  hut  he  is  not 
the  ai;ent,  he  is ^assife. — Delaimos.ne. 


264  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Who  mess  *esef  wi'  taters  twell  his  clothes  dey  look 
er  sight? 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Byo  baby  boy,  oh  bye, 
By-o  li'l'  boy! 
En  'e  run  ter  es  mammy 
Per  ter  git  'im  out  er  trouble. 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Who  all  time  er-frettin'  en  de  middle  er  de  day? 

Mammy's  li'l'  boy,  mammy's  li'l'  boy! 
Who  all  time  er-gettin'  so  sleepy  'e  can't  play  ? 

Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 

Byo  baby  boy,  oh  bye, 
By-o  li'l'  boy! 
En  'e  come  ter  es  mammy 
Ter  rock  'im  en  'er  arms. 
Mammy's  li'l'  baby  boy. 
Shoo,  shoo,  shoo-shoo-shoo, 
Shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo-shoo-shoo, 
Shoo,  li'l'  baby,  shoo! 
Shoo,  shoo,  shoo-shoo-shoo, 
Shoo,  shoo,  shoo. 
Shoo     .... 

Deir  now,  lay  right  down  on  mammy's  bed  en  go 
'long  back  ter  sleep, — shoo-shoo!  .  .  .  Look  hyah, 
nigger,  go  way  f'om  dat  do'!  You  wake  dis  chile  up 
wid  dat  jewsharp,  en  I'll  wear  yer  out  ter  frazzles! — 
Sh-h-h-h— 


A  coviinotion  thai  produces  a  strong  impression,  comtnunicates  to  the  arvis 
an  ascending  jnotion  which  may  lift  them  high  above  the  //fa(/.— Delsarte. 


"He   comes!     Whither   shall    I   go?'' 


CLEMENCY  OF  AN  AFRICAN  KING. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         265 
CIVIL  WAR. 


Translated  by  Lucy  H.  Hooper. 


^"'HE  mob  was  fierce  and  furious.     They  cried: 

"Kill  him!"  the  while   they  pressed   from   every 
side 
Around  a  man,  haughty,  unmoved^  and  brave, 
Too  pitiless  himself  to  pity  crave. 
"  Down  with  the  wretch!"  on  all  sides  rose  the  cry; 
The  captive  found  it  natural  to  die. 
The  game  is  lost — he's  on  the  weaker  side, 
Life,  too,  is  lost,  and  so  must  fate  decide. 

From  out  his  home  they  dragged  him  to  the  street, 
With  fiercely  clinching  hands  and  hurrying  feet 
And  shouts  of  "  Death  to  him!"     The  crimson  stain 
Of  recent  carnage  on  his  garb  showed  plain. 
This  man  was  one  of  those  who  blindly  slay 
At  a  king's  bidding.     He'd  shot  men  all  day, 
Killing  he  knew  not  whom,  he  scarce  knew  why, 
Now  marching  forth,  impassible,  to  die. 

A  woman  clutched  his  collar  with  a  frown, 
'*  He's  a  policeman — he  has  shot  us  down!" 
"  That's  true,"  the  man  said.    "  Kill  him!"  "Shoot  him!" 

"Kill!" 
"  No,  at    the    arsenal" — "  The    Bastile!" — "  Where    you 

will," 
The  captive  answered.     And  with  fiercest  breath. 
Loading  their  guns,  his  captors  still  cried  "  Death!" 
"  We'll  shoot  him  like  a  wolf!"     "  A  wolf  am  I? 
Then  you're  the  dogs,"  he  calmly  made  reply. 

t — \ : — : 

Clavicular  breathing  brings  the  chest  or  mental  zone  into  action.  It  is  a 
hysteric  method,  only  to  be  used  when  the  dramatic  situation  demands  sob- 
/"'"S'  S"-'^/""i  utterance. — Genevieve  Stehiiins. 


266        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Hark,  he  insults  us!"  And  from  every  side 
Clinched  fists  were  shaken,  angry  voices  cried. 
Within  his  eyes  a  gleam  of  baffled  hate, 
He  went,  pursued  by  howlings,  to  his  fate. 
Treading  with  wearied  and  supreme  disdain 
'Midst  forms  of  dead  men  he,  perchance,  had  slain. 
He  would  have  shot  them  all  had  he  the  power. 
"  Kill  him — he's  fired  upon  us  for  an  hour!" 

"  Down  with  the  murderer — down  with  the  spy!" 
And  suddenly  a  small  voice  made  reply, 
"  No — no,  he  is  my  father!"     And  a  ray 
Like  to  a  sunbeam  seemed  to  light  the  day. 
A  child  appeared,  a  boy  with  golden  hair. 
His  arms  upraised  in  menace  or  in  prayer. 
All  shouted,  "  Shoot  the  bandit,  fell  the  spy!" 
The  little  fellow  clasped  him  with  a  cry 
Of  "  Papa,  papa,  they'll  not  hurt  you  now!" 
The  light  baptismal  shone  upon  his  brow. 

From  out  the  captive's  home  had  come  the  child. 

Meanwhile  the  shrieks  of  "  Kill  him— death!"  rose  wild; 

And  in  the  street  ferocious  shouts  increased 

Of  *'  Slay  each  spy — each  minister — each  priest. 

We'll  kill  them  all!"     The  little  boy  replied: 

"  I  tell  you  this  is  papa."     One  girl  cried: 

"  A  pretty  fellow — see  his  curly  head!" 

"  How  old  are  you,  my  boy?"  another  said, 

**Do  not  kill  papa!"  only  he  replies. 

A  soulful  lustre  lights  his  streaming  eyes. 

Some  glances  from  his  gaze  are  turned  away, 
And  the  rude  hands  less  fiercely  grasp  their  prey. 

_ * 


As  soon  as  surprise  is  great  enough  to  raise  the  shoulders  and  the  arms,  the 
head  iaJkes  an  inverse  direction:  it  sinks,  and  seems  anxious  to  become  solid, 
to  offer  more  resistance.— Dei.sarte.. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  267 

Then  one  of  the  most  pitiless  says,  "  Go — 

Get    you    back  home,  boy."     "Where — why?"     "Don't 

you  know? 
Go  to  your  mother."     Then  the  father  said, 
"  He  has  no  mother."     "  What — his  mother's  dead? 
Then  you  are  all  he  has?"     "  That  matters  not," 
The  captive  answers,  losing  not  a  jot 
Of  his  composure  as  he  closely  pressed 
The  little  hands  to  warm  them  in  his  breast. 

And  says,  "Onr  neighbor,  Catherine,  you  know, 

Go  to  her."    "  You'll  come,  too  ?"    "  Not  yet."    "  No,  no, 

Then  I'll  not  leave  you."  "Why?"     "These  men,  I  fear. 

Will  hurt  you,  papa,  when  I  am  not  here." 

The  father  to  the  chieftain  of  the  band 

Says  softly:  "  Loose  your  grasp  and  take  my  hand, 

I'll  tell  the  child  to-morrow  we  shall  meet, 

Then  you  can  shoot  me  in  the  nearest  street. 

Or  farther  off,  just  as  you  like."     "  'Tis  well!" 

The  words  from  those  rough  lips  reluctant  fell; 

And,  half  unclasped,  the  hands  less  fierce  appear. 

The  fatlier  says,  "You  see,  we'r'e  all  friends  here, 

I'm  going  with  these  gentlemen  to  walk; 

Go  home.     Be  good.     1  have  no  time  to  talk." 

The  little  fellow,  reassured  and  gay. 

Kisses  his  father  and  then  runs  away. 

"  Now  he  is  gone,  and  we  are  at  our  ease, 

And  you  can  kill  me  where  and  how  you  please," 

The  father  says:  "  Where  is  it  I  must  go?" 

Then  through  the  crowd  a  long  thrill  seems  to  flow, 

The  lips,  so  late  with  cruel  wrath  a-foam, 

Relentingly  and  roughly  cry:  "  Go  home!" 


Sound  is  (•glinting,  or  it  is  not/iifi!;.     Il  should  be  in  affinity  with  the  sub- 
ject.—  Delaumosne. 


268  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE  BABY'S  FIRST  TOOTH. 


IV/r  R.  and  Mrs.  Jones  had  just  finished  their  breakfast, 
Mr.  Jones  had  pushed  back  his  chair  and  was 
looking  under  the  lounge  for  his  boots.  Mrs.  Jones  sat 
at  the  table,  holding  the  infant  Jones,  and  mechanically 
working  her  forefinger  in  its  mouth.  Suddenly  she 
paused  in  the  motion,  threw  the  astonished  child  on  its 
back,  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  pried  open  its  mouth, 
and  immediately  gasped,  "  Ephraim!  "  Mr.  Jones,  who 
was  yet  on  his  knees  with  his  head  under  the  lounge,  at 
once  came  forth,  rapping  his  head  sharply  on  the  side 
of  the  lounge  as  he  did  so,  and  getting  on  his  feet,  in- 
quired what  was  the  matter. 

"O  Ephraim!"  said  she,  the  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks  and  smiles  coursing  up. 

"Why,  what  is  it,  Aramathea?"  said  the  astonished 
Mr.  Jones,  smartly  rubbing  his  head  where  it  had  come 
in  contact  with  the  lounge. 

"  Baby!"  she  gasped.  Mr.  Jones  turned  pale  and  the 
perspiration  started. 

"Baby!  O— O— O  Ephraim!  Baby  has— baby  has 
got — a  little  toothey,  oh,  oh!  " 

"No!  "  screamed  Mr.  Jones,  spreading  his  legs  apart, 
dropping  his  chin,  and  staring  at  the  struggling  heir 
with  all  his  might. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is,"  persisted  Mrs.  Jones,  with  a  slight 
evidence  of  hysteria. 

"  Oh,  it  can't  be!  "  protested  Mr.  Jones,  preparing  to 
swear  if  it  wasn't. 

"Come  here  and  see   for  yourself,"    said   Mrs.  Jones. 


A  man  considers  an  object  wth    head   raised  when  he  considers   it  with  a 
feeling  of  pride.     It  is  thus  that  he  rules  them  or  exalts  them.  — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.  269 

"Open  its  'ittle  mousy-wousy  for  its  own  muzzer;  that's 
a  toody-woody;  that's  a  blessed  'ittle  'ump  o'  sugar." 

Thus  conjured^  the  heir  opened  its  mouth  sufficiently 
for  the  father  to  thrust  in  his  finger,  and  that  o-entle- 
man  having  convinced  himself  by  the  most  unmistakable 
evidence  that  a  tooth  was  there,  immediately  kicked 
his  hat  across  the  room,  buried  his  fist  in  the  lounge,  and 
declared  with  much  feeling  that  he  should  like  to  see  the 
individual  who  would  dare  to  intimate  that  he  was  not 
the  happiest  man  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Then  he 
gave  Mrs.  Jones  a  hearty  smack  on  the  mouth  and 
snatched  up  the  heir,  while  that  lady  rushed  trem- 
blingly forth  after  Mrs.  Simmons,  who  lived  next  door. 
In  a  moment  Mrs.  Simmons  came  tearing  in  as  if  she 
had  been  shot  out  of  a  gun,  and  right  behind  her  came 
Miss  Simmons  at  a  speed  that  indicated  that  she  had 
been  ejected  from  two  guns.  Mrs.  Simmons  at  once 
snatched  the  heir  from  the  arms  of  Mr.  Jones  and  hur- 
ried it  to  the  window,  where  she  made  a  careful  and 
critical  examination  of  its  mouth,  while  Mrs.  Jones  held 
its  liead,  and  Mr.  Jones  danced  up  and  down  the  room 
and  snapped  his  fingers  to  show  how  calm  he  was. 

It  having  been  ascertained  by  Mrs.  Simmons  that  the 
tooth  was  a  sound  one,  and  also  that  the  strongest 
hopes  for  its  future  could  be  entertained  on  account  of 
its  coming  in  the  new  of  the  moon,  Mrs.  Jones  got  out 
the  necessary  materials,  and  Mr.  Jones  at  once  pro- 
ceeded to  write  seven  different  letters  to  as  many  per- 
sons, unfolding  to  them  the  event  of  the  morning,  and 
inviting  them  to  come  on  as  soon  as  possible,  while  the 
unconscious  cause  of  the  excitement,  after  viewing  mat- 
ters calmly  for  a  time,  opened  its  mouth  and  took  things 
4. 


Man  reveals  his  life  through  more  than  four  millions  of  injlections  ere  he 
can  speak  or  gesticulate.— Dklavmosn&. 


\ 


270  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

into  its  own  hands  by  remarking  at  first  deprecStingly, 
and  then  with  decided  disapproval:  "  Ah-h-h-day-ay- 
goo-oo-oo-po-o-o  \enei-getically\  gaa-ah-ah-ya-ya-ah-nga- 
ah!  "  with  which  sentiments  every  parent  agrees. 


THANKSGIVIN'  PUMPKIN  PIES. 


Margaret   E.    Sangster. 


OO  you  bid  me  t 
bor,  it  is  kind, 


to  Thanksgivin' !  Thank  you,  neigh- 


To  keep  a  plain  old  body  like  myself  so  much  in  mind; 
Here  I've  been  sittin'  all  alone,  and  a  mist  before  my 

eyes, 
A-thinkin',  like  a  simpleton,  of  mother's  pumpkin  pies. 

Yes,  I've  just  come  home  from  Sarah's;  come  hone  I'm 

glad  to  say; 
And  here,  God  helping  me,  I   mean   in   future  time  to 

stay; 
Oh!  Sarah's  folks  are  very  fine,  but  I  felt  all  at  sea. 
And   though  the    rooms  were  'mazin'  big,  they  seemed 

too  small  for  me. 

The  house  is  like  a  palace,  and  mine's  a  tiny  nest, 

But,  neighbor,  I'm  contented  here,  I  like  this  place  the 
best; 

Just  as  Sarah's  creams  and  salads  I  don't  know  how  to 
prize; 

Her  French  cook  costs  a  fortune,  but  /  favor  home- 
made pies, 


All  arts  are  found  in  articulation.  Sound  is  the  articulation  of  the  vocal 
apparatus:  gesture  the  articulation  of  the  dynamic  apparatus:  language  the 
articulation  of  the  buccal  apparatus.  Therefore,  tnusic,  the  plastic  arts,  and 
speech  have  their  origin  and  their  perfection  in  articulation. — Delsarte. 


i 


DELS  ARTE  RECITA2T0N  BOOK.        27 1 

Like    mother's;  flaky,  rich  and  brown,   and  toothsome 

with  the  spice; 
I  grew  to  loathe  her  dinners,  cut  in  half  with  lemon  ice: 
Give  me  good  food,  biled  greens  and  pork,  and  turkey 

now  and  then; 
I  tell  you  on  our  mountain  fare  we've  raised  a  race  of 

men. 

Not  spindlin'  like  them  city  folks,  in  dress-suits  if  you 

please, 
An'  mincin'  in  their  low-cut  shoes,  an'  bowin'  to  their 

knees. 
I  hate  such  silly  airs;  I  like  to  hear  a  hearty  word; 
No!  I'm  not  deaf,  but  when  one  speaks,  why,  speak  so's 

to  be  heard. 

In  Sarah's   house  'twas   "  aunty  this"  and  "aunty  that," 

until 
I  saw  I  made  a  discord,  let  me  do  my  best;  'an  still 
I'm  sure  the  child  loves  aunty,  but,  neighbor,  she  and  I 
Are  far  apart  and   nohow  could  our  ways  again  draw 

nigh. 

She   wears   her  black  silk  every   day,  a-trailin'  on   the 

ground, 
Leastwise,  a-trailin'  on   the  JJoor;  'tis  called,   I   b'lieve, 

tea-gowned. 
An'  frills  an'  lace,  'an  hot-house  flowers;  such  waste,  it 

worried  me, 
Rememberin'  Jotham  Peckham's  kin,  as   poor  as  poor 

could  be. 

Rememberin'  Jotham   Peckham,  I  was  vexed  to  see  his 
child. 


Men  of  small  brain  habitually  carry  their  heads  high.      The  head  is  low- 
ered in  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  intelligence. — Delaumosnb. 


2/2         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

A-throwin'  money  here  and  there;  it  made  me  fairly- 
wild. 

Her  house,  it's  just  like  Barnum's,  with  jimcracks  every. 
where, 

When  pa  and  me  the  children  took  to  see  the  wonders 
there. 

How  I   run  on!  Well,  thank  you,  neighbor;    I   see  you 

want  to  go; 
I'm    comin'    to    Thanksgivin';     your  good    old  ways   I 

know. 
An'  my  mouth  waters,  dear  old  friend,  there's  tears  in 

these  dim  eyes, 
For  I  shall  taste  the  flavor  of  mother's  pumpkin  pies. 

And  though  I'm   'most  threescore  and   ten,  an'  cranky, 

I'm  afraid. 
Once   more  I'll   feel   myself  a  child,  my  mother's   little 

maid ; 
And  I'll  be  very  pleased  to  help,  in  any  way  I  can; 
Good-bye,  dear,  and  my  love  to  Ruth;   a  kiss  to  Mary 

Ann. 


OL'  PICKETT'S  NELL. 


Mather  D.   Kimball. 


"C^EEL  more  'an  ever  like  a  fool 

Sence  Pickett's  Nell  come  back  from  school. 
She  oncet  wuz  twelve  'nd  me  eighteen 
'Nd  better  friends  you  never  seen; 

But  now — oh,  my! 
She's  dressed  so  fine,  'nd  growed  so  tall, 
'Nd  I'arnin' — she  jes  knows  it  all. 
^ : ^ — : -f" 

I       A  hasty  delivery  is  by  710  jneans  proo_f  0/ animation,  luartiith,  Jire.  passion,  T 
or  emotion  in  the  orator:  hence  in  delivery,  as  in  tone,  haste  is  in  an  inverse 
ratio  to  emotion.     We  do  not  glide  lightly  over  a  beloved  subject:  a  prolonga- 

I  tion  o_/ tone  is  the  expression  o_f  love. — Delsarte.  | 

.J. 4. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         273 

She's  eighteen  now,  but  I'm  so  slow 
I'm  whar  I  wuz  six  year  ago. 

Six  year!     Waal,  waal!  doan't  seem  a  week 
Sence  we  rode  Dolly  to  th'  creek, 
'Nd  fetched  th'  cattle  home  at  night. 
Her  hangin'  to  my  jacket  tight. 

But  now — oh,  my! 
She  rides  in  Pickett's  new  coopay 
Jes  like  she'd  be'n  brung  up  thet  way, 
'Nd  lookin'  like  a  reg'lar  queen — 
Th'  mostcst  like  I  ever  seen. 

She  uster  tease,  'nd  tease,  'nd  tease 
Me  fer  to  take  her  on  my  knees; 
Then  tired  me  out  'ith  Marge'y  Daw, 
'Nd  laffin  tell  my  throat  wuz  raw. 

But  now — oh,  my! 
She  sets  up  this  way — kinder  proud, 
'Nd  never  noways  laughs  out  loud. 
You  w'u'd  n't  hardly  think  thet  she 
Hed  ever  see-sawed  on  my  knee. 

'Nd  sometimes,  ef  at  noon  I'd  choose 
To  find  a  shady  place  'nd  snooze, 
I'd  wake  with  burdocks  in  my  hair 
'Nd  elderberries  in  my  ear. 
But  now  — oh,  my! 
Somebody  said  ('twuz  yesterday): 
"  Let's  hev  some  fun  w'ile  Ned's  away; 
Let's  turn  his  jacket  inside  out!  " 
But  Nell — she'd  jes  turn  red  'nd  pout. 

A -_ ; ; 

T  In  a  proditctton  of  art  whose  subject  attd  viaterials  he  in  the  doittain  of  un- 
reclaimed nature,  genius  is  not  />erniitied  to  falsify  any  fundamental  prin- 
ciple or  fact,  but  is  free  to  modify  and  add.     Otherwise,  the  creative  func- 

I  Hon  of  art  is  g'one,  and  only  imitation  is  left. — Rev.  W.  R.  Algek. 

4, : , 


274        DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

'Nd  oncet  when  I  wuz  dreamin'-like, 
A-throwin'  akerns  in  th'  dike, 
She  put  her  arms  clean  round  my  head, 
'Nd  whispered  soft,  "  I  like  you,  Ned;" 

But  now — oh,  my! 
She  courtesied  so  stiff  'nd  grand, 
'Nd  never  oncet  held  out  her  hand, 
'Nd  called  me  *'  Mister  Edward!  "  Laws! 
Thet  ain't  my  name,  'nd  never  wuz. 

'Nd  them  'at  knovved  'er  years  ago 
Jes  laughed  t'  see  'er  put  on  so; 
Coz  it  wuz  often  talked,  'nd  said, 
"  Nell  Pickett's  jes  cut  out  fer  Ned." 

But  now — oh,  my! 
She  held  her  purty  head  so  high, 
'Nd  skasely  saw  me  goin'  by — 
I  w'u'd  n't  dast  (afore  last  night) 
'A-purposely  come  near  her  sight. 

Last  night,  ez  I  was  startin'  out 
To  git  th'  cows,  I  heerd  a  shout; 
'Nd,  sure  ez  ghostses,  she  wuz  thar, 
A-settin'  on  ol'  Pickett's  mar'; 

'Nd  then — oh,  my! 
She  said  she  'd  cried  fer  all  th'  week 
To  lake  th'  ol'  ride  to  th'  creek; 
Then  talked  about  ol'  times,  'nd  said, 
"Them  days  wuz  happy,  wa'n't  they,  Ned? 

Th'  folks  wuz  talkin'  ev'rywhars 
'Bout  her  a-puttin'  on  sech  airs, 
'Nd  seemed  t'  me  like  they  wuz  right, 
Afore  th'  cow?  come  home  last  night. 
But  71  ore — oh,  my! 


The  speaker  or  singer  should  know  fiow  to  diminish  tone  without  contract- 
ing the  back  part  of  the  mouth. — Delsarti. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  275 

JIMMY  BROWN'S  DOG. 


William  L.  Aldkn.    Arranged  hy  Elsie  M.  Wilbor. 


IX/TR.  TRAVERS  had  told  me  mornamillion  times 
^  that,  after  he  should  be  married  to  Sue,  I  was  to 

come  to  live  with  him.  Sue  heard  him  say  it  lots  of 
times,  for  I  remember  she  always  used  to  say,  ''  Pshaw! 
don't  be  perfectly  ridiculous;  I'd  like  to  catch  myself 
living  within  a  hundred  miles  of  that  boy  after  I  leave 
this  house."  So  it  was  all  perfectly  understood;  and  I 
never  dreamed  for  a  minute  that  Mr.  Travers  wasn't  in 
earnest,  and  I  was  surprised  that  they  did  not  ask  me 
to  go  with  them  the  day  they  were  married. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  wedding,  father  made  all  his 
arrangements  for  going  to  Europe,  and  I  was  to  go  and 
stay  with  Mr.  Travers  for  a  year,  and  go  to  school.  Mr. 
Travers  wrote  that,  "  I  will  meet  your  son  at  the  station 
next  Tuesday  and  take  charge  of  him  while  you  are 
gone,  though  I  will  not  answer  for  the  consequences,  as 
Susan  is  in  a  nervous  state,  and  I  do  not  think  her  sys- 
tem requires  boys."  I  copied  this  from  his  letter,  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  ask  him  what  he  meant  by  the  "con- 
sequences," but  I  forgot  to  do  it. 

The  day  before  father  and  mother  started  I  was  sent 
to  Mr.  Travers's  with  a  trunk  of  ni}'  own,  and  a  beautiful 
young  bull-dog  that  was  given  me  for  a  parting  present. 
The  dog  was  in  a  box  with  holes  in  it,  and  he  growled 
elegantly  every  time  anybody  touched  the  box.  I  took 
him  out  as  soon  as  the  train  started,  and  the  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  take  a  splendid  big  piece  out  of  the  leg 
of  my  trousers.  Then  he  sat  up  on  the  seat  and  growled 
till   the  conductor  came  along  and  said,"  Boy,  whose 


The  legs  have  their  gamuts  ranging  /rem  repose  out  into  extreme  emotions. 

The  trunk  contains  the  grand  central  tones  o/" t/ie  man.     The  arms  are  varied 

in  their  expression  from  the  expansiveness  of  vitality  to  the  contractibility  o/ 

thought. — Franklin  H.  Sargent. 

f ► 


276  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

dog  is  that?  No  dogs  allowed  here.  You  must  put 
him  back  into  that  box,  and  be  quick  about  it.  Tickets, 
gentlemen."  But  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  think  that 
the  dog  wanted  to  go  back,  and  I  was  afraid  it  would 
make  trouble  if  anybody  tried  to  make  him  change  his 
mind.  The  conductor  said  he  didn't  care  what  the  dog 
wanted,  but  that  he  was  going  back  into  that  box  inside 
of  three  seconds,  or  he'd  know  the  reason  why.  So  he 
tried  to  take  him  by  the  neck,  but  the  dog  was  too  quick 
for  him,  and  after  taking  a  little  piece  out  of  his  hand, 
hid  under  the  seat.  The  conductor  called  a  brakeman, 
and  the  two  began  to  hunt  the  dog. 

If  the  dog  had  kept  quiet,  they  wouldn't  have  found 
him;  but  he  was  a  little  angry  at  the  way  he  was  treated, 
and  I  don't  blame  him,  for  nobody  likes  to  be  poked 
with  sticks,  and  told  to  "  come  here,  you  brute  "  and 
"get  out  of  there  now,  will  you."  So  every  little  while 
he  would  take  hold  of  somebody's  leg,  and  you  would 
hear  a  dreadful  yell,  and  would  know  just  where  the 
dog  was;  but  by  the  time  the  conductor  and  the  brake- 
man  got  there,  the  dog  would  have  got  through  with 
that  particular  leg,  and  would  be  in  another  part  of  the 
car  selecting  another  leg. 

When  we  arrived  at  our  station  the  dog  let  me  carry 
him.  The  passengers  growled  more  than  the  dog  did, 
and  some  of  those  who  had  been  bitten  said  that  I  ought 
to  be  killed;  but  I  never  pay  much  attention  to  what 
angry  people  say,  they  are  so  unreasonable.  Mr.  Travers 
met  me  at  the  station,  and  said,  "Oh!  it's  you,  is  it?" 
This  wasn't  a  very  nice  welcome,  but  I  didn't  mind  that, 
for  presently  he  said,  "That  dog  looks  sick,  Jimmy. 
We'll  stop  in  at  the  apothecary's  and  get  a  dose  of  medi- 


The  acotisiic  organs  should  have   nothing   to   do  ivith    the  transmission  o/\ 
sound.     They  »iust  be  passive  so  that  the  tone  may  be  continuous  and  smooth. 
— Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         277 

cine  for  him."  This  was  just  kind  as  it  could  be.  The 
dog  was  pretty  sick,  though  I  hadn't  noticed  it,  for  he 
died  that  night.  When  wc  went  into  the  apothecary's, 
Mr.  Travers  said  to  the  young  man  behind  the  counter, 
"  William,  I  think  this  dog  is  in  a  pretty  bad  way.  He 
looks  pale.  Don't  you  think  that  a  little  strychnine 
would  do  him  good?"  The  young  man  said,  "Yes, 
strychnine  is  a  beautiful  medicine  for  that  kind  of  a 
dog."  So  he  gave  Mr.  Travers  a  powder.  I  said  to  Mr. 
Travers  that  if  the  medicine  was  real  good  I  should  like 
to  take  some,  but  he  said,  "  Jimmy,  I  am  sure  it  would 
do  you  and  your  friends  all  the  good  in  the  world,  and 
nothing  would  make  me  happier  than  to  give  the  whole 
of  it  to  you;  but  it's  against  the  law  for  me  to  give 
medicine  to  anybody,  and  you  must  promise  me  never 
to  taste  the  least  bit  of  this  kind  of  medicine  while 
you're  here."  Sue  was  glad  to  see  me,  and  said, "  So 
they  did  send  you  after  all.  I  think  it's  so  mean  for 
parents  to  send  their  children  away  from  home;  there, 
don't  kiss  me,  I've  just  put  up  my  hair." 

After  supper,  Mr.  Travers  told  me  to  run  out  to  the 
barn  and  see  the  horses  and  cows.  There  were  four 
horses,  and  two  of  them  were  all  white.  Indeed,  they 
were  a  great  deal  paler  than  my  dog,  so  I  knew  they 
must  be  ill.  Then  there  was  a  Ifirge,  pale  cat,  that  had 
longer  hair  than  any  cat  I  ever  saw.  She  looked  as  if 
she  was  more  ill  than  the  horses.  One  of  the  cows  kept 
lowing  in  a  way  that  made  me  feel  sure  that  she  had  a 
dreadful  pain,  and  I  wished  that  I  had  some  of  Mr. 
Travers's  medicine  to  give  the  poor,  sick  animals. 

By  and  by  Mr.  Travers  came  out  into  the  backyard 
with  a  piece  of  meat  and  the  paper  of  medicine,  and  I 


A  fact  of  negation  in  a  sentence  does  not,  as  a  rule,  change  the  emphasis. — 
Lewis  B.  Monroe. 


278  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

said,  "  Mr.  Travers,  won't  you  let  me  give  some  medicine 
to  the  horses  and  cows,  I'm  sure  they  don't  feel  well;" 
but  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid,  my  young  friend,  that  you  are 
almost  too  bright  to  live  long."  Just  then  Sue  called 
him,  and  he  left  the  meat  and  the  medicine  on  the  bench. 
He  had  sprinkled  a  little  of  the  medicine  on  the  meat, 
and  as  I  noticed  the  cat  smelling  the  meat,  I  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  her  a  piece  of  it,  when  I  remembered 
that  I  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  Mr.  Travers's  own 
animals,  so  I  just  walked  away.  When  I  came  back,  I 
found  that  the  cat  and  dog  had  eaten  the  meat  between 
them,  and  one  of  the  cows  was  smelling  the  rest  of  the 
medicine.  I  drove  her  away,  but  not  until  she  had  taken 
a  good  taste  of  it. 

I  wrapped  up  what  was  left,  and  took  it  to  Mr. 
Travers.  He  turned  pale,  and  said,  "  You  young  rascal, 
you  haven't  taken  any  of  that  stuff,  have  you?"  and  I 
said,"  No,  sir;  I  promised  you  I  wouldn't,  but  the  dog  has 
been  eating  the  meat,"  I  was  going  to  tell  him  about 
the  cat  and  cow,  but  he  laughed,  and  told  me  to  run 
down  to  the  village  and  bring  him  the  letters.  When 
I  got  home  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  and  I  was  told  that 
I  couldn't  see  my  dog  that  night  for  he  was  asleep,  and 
it  might  injure  him  to  wake  him  up  after  taking 
medicine. 

The  next  morning  when  we  were  at  breakfast  the 
coachman  came  in  and  said,"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Travers, 
the  new  dog  is  pizined." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Travers;  "  is  he 
really  hurt  ?" 

"  Yis,  sorr,"  said  the  man;  "  he's  hurt  pretty  bad.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  sorr,  they're  both  dead." 

4" 


The  vocal  tube  must  not  vary  any  more  /or  the  loud  tone  than /or  the  loiv 
tone.  The  opening  must  be  the  same.  The  loiv  tone  tnust  have  the  power  o/ 
the  loud  tone,  since  it  is  to  be  equally  understood. — Delsarte. 


4- 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.         279 

''What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Mr. 
Travers. 

"  The  dog  and  the  Angora  cat,  sorr;  the  pair  of  them 
is  both  very  near  entirely  dead,"  replied  the  coachman, 
"and  the  Alderney  cow  doesn't  seem  to  be  altogether 
livin'  this  mornin'." 

Mr.  Travers  didn't  wait  to  hear  any  more,  but  seized 
his  hat,  and  started  for  the  barn.  I  went  too.  I  found 
my  dear  dog  lying  dead.  Between  the  dog  and  the 
barn  was  the  cat,  and  she  was  as  dead  as  he  was.  I  saw 
Mr.  Travers  looking  as  if  he  wanted  to  kill  a  few  people 
to  keep  the  animals  company.  I  said,  "Mr.  Travers!  I 
know  who  has  poisoned  all  the  animals;  it  was  that 
young  man  in  the  apothecary's  shop." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Jimmy  ?"  asked  Mr, 
Travers,  very  savagely.  "  I  mean,  sir,"  said  I,  "  that  he 
must  have  given  you  poison  instead  of  medicine,  for  my 
dog  took  it  and  now  he's  dead,  and  I  saw  the  cat  and 
the  Alderney  cow  taste  it,  and  they're  dead."  Mr.  Trav- 
ers took  me  by  the  collar  and  dragged  me  up  to  my 
room  and  locked  the  door  without  saying  a  word. 

Now  I  acknowledge  that  I  did  wrong  in  not  letting  Mr. 
Travers  know  that  the  cow  and  the  cat  had  taken  the 
medicine,  but  that  was  all  I  did.  It  was  just  forgetful- 
ness,  and  that  isn't  so  dreadfully  bad.  I  never  had  the 
least  idea  that  the  medicine  would  do  any  harm,  and  1 
should  have  taken  a  little  myself  if  Mr.  Travers  had  not 
made  me  promise  not  to  do  so.  I  think  tliat  he  ought  to 
have  looked  at  it  as  I  did,  and  blamed  nobody  but  the 
young  man  at  the  apothecary's  shop,  who,  instead  of 
giving  him  strychnine,  must  have  given  him  something 
poisonous;  but,  instead  of  doing  this,  Mr.  Travers  gave 
4. 1 


The  harmonic  law  of  rhythm  is:  Cooperative  movements  in  opposition  will 
be  in  their  velocity  in  the  exact  ratio  of  the  length  of  the  radii  of  the  agents 
moving. — Steele  Mackaye. 

L _ -4 


280         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

me  a  terrible  scolding,  and  said  I  was  a  young  Cain,  and 
kept  me  shut  up  in  my  room  for  three  days,  and  gave 
me  nothing  but  bread  and  water.  This  was  the  begin- 
ning of  coolness  between  us,  for  I  resolved  that  I  would 
not  overlook  such  conduct,  unless  he  should  ask  me  to 
forgive  him. 

But  we  will  say  no  more  of  this  painful  subject,  for  I 
don't  like  to  think  of  those  poor  animals  cut  off  in  their 
prime,  and  without  any  time  for  reflection.  I  suppose 
the  dog  is  better  off  now  than  when  he  was  alive,  for  he 
was  a  sweet,  good  animal;  but  I  don't  think  that  cats 
have  a  good  time  after  they  are  gone,  for  they  are  cruel 
and  wicked,  except  when  they're  little. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  YEAR. 


Mrs.  John  Sherwood. 


Sprifig. 
\_J  OW  gracefully  the  young  Bertine 
With  Jaques,  her  lover,  dances; 
Bee  how  like  sunbeams  'neath  the  trees 

She  flies,  and  then  advanc<:s; 
And  yet  she  sings  in  a  minor  key 
The  old  Provengal  melod)% 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  coeur!    Adieu,  inon  coeur!" 
As  if  some  sadness  came  to  her 

With  love's  dear  smiles  and  glances. 


/<  in  through  *he  'loice  w  pl'ase  an  audience.     If  we  have  the  ear  o/ an 
auditor,  we  easily  win  his  fnind  and  heart, — Delsartk. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         281 

The  Sieur  de  Courcy  comes  that  way 

And  'neath  the  walnut  lingers, 
He  marks  her  instep  clean  and  high, 

Her  white  and  dainty  fingers; 
He  hears  her  sing  in  a  minor  key 
The  old  Provencal  melody, 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cmir!    Adieu,  mon  cceur!" 
And  thinks,  as  he  fondly  looks  at  her, 

Of  the  lays  of  the  Minnesingers. 

But  hark,  the  call!  the  conscript  drum! 

And  Jaques,  the  number  chosen; 
No  wonder  that  Bertine  is  dumb, 

The  blood  in  her  bosom  frozen. 
Brave  Jaques  strikes  up  in  a  stronger  key 
The  old  Provencal  melody, 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cceur!     Adieu,  mon  cccurT 
And  looking  fondly  back  at  her, 

He  said,  "Dear  love,  be  true  to  me." 

Summer. 

The  king  said  gaily,  '' Je  m'ennuie," 

Nor  heard  if  the  people  grumbled; 
What  cared  that  gallant  majesty  i 

If  some  plain  lives  were  humbled? 
The  next  age  sang  in  a  different  key, 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cccur!     Adieu,  mon  cceur!" 
Of  Pompadour  and  the  Pare  aux  Cerfs, 
And  greeted  the  great  with  a  bitter  laugh 

When  heads  in  the  basket  tumbled. 


The  Toice  should  resemhU  the  painter's  f'ixlette,7vhere  aU  the  colors  are  ar- 
ranged in  an  orderly  manner,  according  to  the  affinities  of  each.  —  Delau- 

MOSNE. 


282         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

For  when  the  sun  lay  on  the  vines 

Bertine  the  grapes  was  tying, 
Tlie  tendril  round  her  brow  entwines, 

The  summer  days  were  flying! 
Well  may  she  sing  in  a  minor  key 
The  old  Provengal  melody, 
"  Tais-toi,  inon  cceur!     Adieu,  mon  ccet/rr' 
For  the  news  was  coming  back  to  her 
Of  the  field  where  Jaques  lay  dying. 

What,  then,  was  history  but  a  page 

Of  romance,  love  and  glory? 
Chimeras  of  the  golden  age 

When  life  was  worth  the  story! 
Woman  still  sings  in  the  minor  key 
The  old  Provengal  melody, 
"  Tais-toi,  inon  coeiir!     Adieu,  mon  cceur!" 
That  is  the  tale  time  tells  to  her. 
And  will  till  he  is  hoary. 

Autumn. 

The  Sieur  de  Courcy  came  to  woo, 

His  voice  was  low  and  tender; 
He  drove  the  wolf  and  the  king  away — 

"  Let  me  be  thy  defender!" 
And  when  she  sang  in  a  minor  key 
The  old  Provengal  melody, 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  C(xur!     Adieu,  mo7i  coeur!" 
The  gentleman  knelt  down  to  her 
And  kissed  her  fingers  slender. 


The  ear  is  the  most  delicate,  the  most  exactitig  o/ all  our  senses.  The  eye  is 
far  inore  tolerant.  The  eye  may  tolerate  a  bad  gesture,  but  the  ear  will  not 
/orgive  a  false  note  or  a  false  inflection. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  283 

"Who  is  my  rival?"  laughed  the  king, 

His  gallant  gray  eyes  lighting; 
"  Now,  I  will  do  a  graceful  thing! 

To  show  I  bear  her  slighting! 
We'll  change  that  mournful  monody. 
The  old  Provencal  melod}', 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cceur!     Adieu,  vioti  coeur!" 
And  life  shall  not  be  spoiled  for  her 

Because  my  love  is  blighting!" 

So  went  he  forth  to  take  the  air. 

His  perfumed  locks  were  streaming, 

His  brow  was  gay,  as  if  no  care 
Could  blight  that  face  so  beaming. 

He  sang,  as  he  rode,  in  a  minor  key, 

The  old  Provencal  melody, 

"  Tais-toi,  man  cii'ur!     Adieu,  mon  cceur!" 

But  took  the  road  that  led  to  her — 
The  courtiers  guessed  his  seeming. 

"I  came,"  said  he,  as  they  bent  the  knee, 

"  All  doubts  and  cares  to  banish; 
Leave  chains  of  rank  and  cares  of  state — 

For  one  day — let  them  vanish! 
And,  dear  Bertine,  sing  now  for  me 
The  old  Proven9al  melody, 
*  Tais-toi,  fuon  cau/r!     Adieu,  mon  coeurT 
And  then  he  lightly  told  to  her 

A  drama  from  the  Spanish. 

"  Rise!  my  proud  subject,"  said  the  king, 
"  Rise!  Marquis  St.  Aulare! 


Tke  Di^lsarte  System  teaches  us  the  philosophy  and  science  /or  the  infusion 
0/ the  muscular  tissues  with  the  rhythmic  pulses  of  the  soul:  it  unfolds  the 
method  for  the  stinmlation  of  the  organism  with  spiritual  energy. — Mrs. 
Edna  Snell  Poui.son. 


284 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


I  give  the  title  and  the  ring 

To  this  thy  consort  fair. 
Now  all  my  courtiers  sound  the  key 
Of  the  old  Provencal  melody, 
*  Tais-toi,  mon  coeur!     Adie^i,  inon  cxurf 
The  king  gave  Courcy's  hand  to  her, 

Who  lover-like  advances. 

Whiter. 

O'er  castle  wall,  with  banners  hung. 

The  crescent  moon  is  creeping, 
And  on  the  ground,  in  sadness  flung, 

A  mournful  man  is  weeping. 
On  a  white  cross — what  words  to  see!— 
He  reads  the  sad  old  monody, 
"  Tais-toi,  mo7i  caur!     Adieii,  moft  cceiirT 
He  breathes  his  last  farewell  to  her, 
For  there  Bertine  lies,  sleeping. 


ril. 

-ff5- 


^t=^ 


Tais    -    toi,  mon  coeur!        A  -  dieu.moncoeur! 


=t 


rit. 


m 


ht^ 


-zU* 


^. 


-z:^. 


-s^ 


TAe  voice  first  ntani/ests  itsel/  through  sound;  inflection  is  an  intentional 
modification  of  sound;  respiration  and  silence  are  a  means  ofl  exactly  find  ing 
the  suitable  tone  and  inflection. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         285 

JOHN  SPICER  ON  CLOTHES. 


Mrs.  Aki;v  Morton  Diaz. 


T  T  is  very  good  fun  to  take  off  your  clothes  and  go  in 
swimming.  Clothes  are  the  things  that  you  wear. 
They  have  arms  and  legs  to  them,  and  ever  so  many 
buttonholes  and  buttons,  and  have  pockets.  Pockets 
are  the  best  part  of  your  clothes.  We  have  two  kinds 
of  clothes,  best  ones  and  old  ones.  We  hang  up  the 
best  ones  and  wear  the  old  ones.  When  you  wear  your 
best  ones  every  day  you  most  always  get  something  on 
them.  Once  I  hitched  the  picket  of  a  picket-fence  into 
the  leg  of  some  best  clothes  and  pitched  over  head  first, 
and  the  picket  went  through,  and  then  I  had  to  take 
that  pair  for  every-day  ones.  Gudgeon  grease  that  you 
get  off  of  wheels  will  not  come  off  very  well.  I  do  not 
mean  it  will  not  come  off  the  wheels  very  well,  but  off 
your  clothes.  Ink  spots  stay  on,  but  you  can  get  paint 
off,  if  you  can  get  anything  to  take  it  off  witli.  Mud 
brushes  off  when  it  gets  dry,  and  your  mother  doesn't 
say  anything  when  vou  get  mud  on  your  every-day  ones, 
but  she  does  on  your  best  ones. 

One  time  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  when  I  was  going 
to  a  party  with  two  little  fellows  about  as  big  as  I  was, 
and  we  had  on  our  best  clothes,  we  climbed  up  a  tree  to 
see  if  some  birds'  eggs  had  hatched  out,  and  a  dry  twig 
on  a  branch  tore  a  hole  on  one  side  of  one  of  my  trousers' 
legs,  and  T  did  not  want  to  go  back  home  because  that 
pair  was  all  the  best  pair  of  trousers  I  had.  A  big  fel- 
low— he  was  not  very  big,  but  he  was  bigger  than  we 
little  fellows — he  told  me  to  go  to  the  party  and  keep 
my  hand  down  over  the  hole,  and  I  did,  and  somebody 
J. 


Gesture  is  hariiionic  through  the  multiplicity  c/  the  agents  that  act  in  the 
same  manner.  This  harmony  is /oundeJ  upon  the  convergence  or  opposition 
of  the  movements. — Delaumosne. 


\ 


286         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

that  was  at  the  party  asked  me  if  my  arm  was  lame,  and  I 
said,  "No,  ma'am ;  "  but  when  the  ice-cream  came  round, 
I  forgot  and  took  away  my  hand  to  take  the  saucer  in 
it,  and  that  same  one  looked  at  it,  and  laughed  some, 
and  she  said:  "  Oh,  now  I  see  what  the  matter  was  with 
your  arm!  "  and  I  laughed  a  little  when  she  did,  and 
she  told  me  not  to  think  any  more  about  the  hole  then, 
but  to  have  a  good  time  and  to  think  about  the  hole 
afterward,  and  I  did.  She  told  me  a  funny  story  about 
a  hole  that  was  torn.  I  will  tell  it:  "  Once  there  was  a 
very  small  boy  named  Gussie,  and  he  tore  his  clothes 
most  every  day,  and  his  mother  had  mended  them  after 
he  had  gone  to  bed  and  he  did  not  see  her  do  it,  and  he 
thought  the  holes  grew  up  of  themselves  in  the  night. 
And  one  day  when  his  little  cousin  Susie  tore  her  dress 
her  mother  told  her  not  to  tear,  and  cried,  Gussie  told 
her  not  to  cry,  for  that  hole  would  grow  up  again  in  the 
night,  just  as  holes  did  in  his  clothes.  And  when  Susie 
went  to  bed  she  put  her  dress  over  a  chair  to  have  the 
holes  grow  up,  and  first  thing  in  the  morning  she  went 
in  her  night-gown  to  look,  and  her  mother  found  her 
standing  there  crying,  and  when  her  mother  asked  her 
what  she  was  crying  for,  she  said,  '  Because  that  hole 
did  not  grow  together  in  the  night.  I  thought  it  would 
grow  up  in  the  night.'  " 

Once  I  had  some  mittens  put  away  in  some  winter 
clothes.  Mittens  are  clothes  to  wear  on  your  hands,  and 
hats  are  clothes  to  wear  on  3'our  head.  Once  my  aunt 
told  me  a  hat  riddle.  I  will  say  it: 
"  Two  poor  little  brothers  they  had  but  one  hat, 
And  both  wore  the  same  one,  can  you  guess  how  was 
that? 


The  pebble  contains  the  sparky  but  ive  tnust  know  hozu  io  produce  it.      The 
phenotnena  o/  nature  contain   /essons,  but  ive  7nust  know  how  to  tnake  the»t 
speak,  and  how  to  undersia?td  their  language. — Delsarte. 
4, 4, 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  287 

Each  boy  had  a  head?     Oh,  yes!  each  had  a  head! 

And  both  heads  had  one  hat  on,  as  just  has  been  said. 

Did  one  boy  stay  in?     No,  nothing  like  that! 

Both  went  out  together,  and  both  wore  the  hat. 

I'll  tell  you  the  answer.     The  hat  was  of  straw, 

As  old  an  old  hat,  sir,  as  ever  you  saw; 

It  was  torn  round  about,  just  under  the  band, 

And  left  in  two  parts;  do  you  quite  understand? 

And  when  these  small  brothers  walked  forth  in  the  town 

Why,  one  wore  the  rim  and  the  other  the  crown!" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  SONG. 


Campbell  Rae- Brown. 


[The  speaker  is  supposed  to  be  alone  in  a  room  in  his  ancestral 
home,  the  last  of  his  race.  Since  he  had  left,  just  a  year  ago,  this  same 
room,  which  was  connected  with  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life,  had 
never  been  used,  but  had  remained  exactly  as  it  was  on  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  night.  As  the  speaker  enters,  he  looks  round  the  apart- 
ment with  a  strange,  half-startled  air,  shivers  slightly,  and  seems  al- 
most to  be  expecting  some  one  to  appear.  With  a  dazed,  dreamy  look 
on  his  face,  he  seats  himself  on  a  sofa.  Then  he  pauses,  seeming  lost 
in  thought. — Music  has  been  composed  specially  for  this  recitation,  and 
can  be  obtained  of  the  publisher  of  this  book.] 

VT'ES,  it  is  just  one  year  ago  to-night, 

And  through  my  brain  there  tingles  into  life 
The  self-same  forms — the  faces  and  the  sound 
Of  voices  that  I  knew  in  those  glad  days — 
That  seemed  no  longer  than  do  minutes  now. 
They  were  so  full  of  joy,  those  old,  dead  hours. 
But  I  let  a  trifle  leap  into  a  thought. 
And  grow  and  grow  till  it  was  past  reclaim; 


No  theory  o/the  passions  or  mere  mechanical  tirill  in  their  expression  can  I 

ever  teach  a  man  to  he  pathetic.     Only  a  disagreeable  tnockcry  of  it  can  tltns\ 

come.     Pathos  is  the  one  particular  affection  that  kno~.vs  no  tieceit.  hut  comes 

in  truth  direct  /ron  the  soul,  and  Koes  direct  to  the  soul. — Rev.  W.  R.  .Ai.c.ek. 

J, ^ ^ 


288         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

I  slipped  it  then  as  sportsmen  slip  their  dogs, 
And  coupled  with  it  madness  for  its  mate. 
They  ran  abreast  as  Jealousy  and  Pique 
Set  on  to  chase  my  love  down  to  its  death. 
I  steeped  my  brain  in  wretched,  jealous  dreams. 
When  I  awoke  I  called  myself  a  cur! 

[^Slight pause.     His  voice  trembles  as  he  goes  on^ 
But  she  had  gone — this  woman  that  I  loved — 
I  see  that  poor  face  now,  drawn  at  the  brows; 
Pain,  like  a  vise,  had  crushed  her  to  the  quick. 
And  yet  amid  that  world  of  quivering  woe. 
Two  steady  stars  shone  out — those  calm  gray  eyes, 
Two  planets,  pure  and  passionless,  that  mocked 
The  lurid  fierceness  of  mine  own  mad  heat. 
And  thus  we  parted — heaven!  when  I  think 
That  in  a  month  I  would  have  called  her  v/ife! 
How  hard  it  seems  a  man's  whole  life  should  be 
O'er-shadowed  by  a  song! 

Aye,  it  had  been 
A  love-dirge  that  her  wondrous  voice  had  sent 
From  out  the  silver  portals  of  her  throat. 
As  though  't  had  been  a  prayer  so  glorified 
'Twould  pierce  its  way  on  through  the  gates  of  heav'n. 
I  slew  my  peace  by  bringing  into  life 
Some  dearer  rival  in  her  love  to  me; 
I  conjured  up  the  ghost  of  some  one  gone — 
Some  dead  love  that  she  held  communion  with. 
Through  the  sweet  channel  of  a  trembling  song. 
I'd  often  come  and  sit  to  hear  her  sing,  but  once 
I  stole  with  silent  step  to  where  she  played. 
Dazzled  by  the  radiance  of  the  light 


tVe  must  reiroact  to  see  an  object  as  a  nvhole. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         289 

The  strong  young  moon  had  flung  across  her  face, 

She  did  not  see  me. 

And  while  each  pulse  throbbed  out  its  troublous  tale, 

I  stood  and  watched,  and  while  I   watched— I  wronged! 

I  crept  so  near  in  my  intent  to  find 

Her  deepest  secret  mirrored  in  her  face, 

That  her  soft  breath  disturbed  the  straying  threads 

My  nervous  hands  had  singled  from  my  hair. 

I  listened  while  the  voice  climbed  to  the  clouds. 

On  melody  that  seemed  to  float  through  tears. 

In  words  that  fell  amid  a  sea  of  sobs. 

I  heard,  I  saw  the  upturned,  straining  eyes, 

The  dreamy  sorrow  dwelling  on  the  lips. 

"  She  sings,"  I  said,  "  to  some  dead  love  of  yore! 

She  has  been  fooling  me  who  gave  her  all — 

My  life!  my  soul!  and,  while  she  smiled  on  me. 

Has  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  some  dead  past." 

I  strode  from  out  the  shadows  to  her  side; 

I  wrenched  the  slender  fingers  from  the  keys; 

And  drowned  her  tones  that,  as  they  sudden  stopped, 

Must  e'en  have  made  the  spellbound  angels  weep. 

She  did  not  speak — but  rose  serene  and  grand. 

And  listened. 

Aye!  Though  I  left  behind  each  word  a  wound 

That  tore  into  her  womanhood — all  dumb 

She  stood,  while  wonder  wandered  through  her  eyes. 

And  then  she  turned  and  left  me  in  the  night. 

Then  in  my  heart  hope  heaved  its  dying  sigh. 

And  with  its  death  my  love  leaped  back  to  life. 

I  put  my  hands  in  pleading  out  to  her; 

I  called  her  by  the  sweetest  names  1  kiu^w; 

On  bended  knee  I  asked  her  to  forgive; 


The  head  is  always  in  of-position  to  the  arms,  ami  must  te   turned  away 
frotn  the  leg,  which  is  advanced. — Delaimosne. 


290         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

And  bit  my  lips  till  I  had  brought  the  blood, 
Because  they'd  shaped  the  words  I'd  said  to  her. 
She  heard  me;  and  she  came  back  once  again, 
She  spoke  to  me,  quite  calmly,  not  to  chide, 
But  sadly,  as  a  bird  whose  mate  is  dead 
Will  tell  its  tale  of  sorrow  to  the  wind; 
She  gazed  at  me  as  one  she  did  not  know, 
And  talked  of  nie  as  some  one  far  away. 
Then  looking  upward  with  a  cry  of  pain: 
"  That  song  I  may  not  sing  you  now,"  she  said; 
"  Ah!  my  poor  brother,  you  must  wait  for  me. 
And  when  I'm  coming — so  that  you  may  know — 
Once  more  I'll  sing  it — just  before  I  die." 
"  Brother!"     A  sudden  mem'ry  like  a  blow 
Struck  on  my  senses  as  though  in  reproof. 
It  all  came  back  to  me,  the  tale  I'd  heard; 
The  pathos  of  it;  her  twin  brother,  blind. 
And  she  had  tended  him  with  marvelous  love; 
He'd  leaned  alone  on  her  until  he  died. 
I  prayed  to  her  for  pity's  sake  to  hear! 
I  raised  my  eyes  to  hers — I  met  her  gaze — 
That -Loov^.  It  held  the  history  of  two  hopes — 
The  wreck  and  ruin  of  two  loves,  two  lives! 
I  wept  as  men  weep  once.     It  was  too  late! 
She  passed  from  sight — I  never  saw  her  more. 
But  ever  after,  haunting  every  hour. 
Each  minute,  whatsoever  path  I  take. 
That  cry  has  followed  me  o'er  all  the  world: 
"  Once  more  Til  sing  it — Just  before  I  die!" 

\^T/ie  speaker  here  pauses — musing,  and  looking  round  with 
a  sort  of  shiver,  and  the  same  strange,  startled  look  in  his 
face  as  before.'] 


H 


A  retrograde  movetnent  may  be  the  sign  of  reverence  and  salutation,  and 
token  that  the  object  before  which  it  is  produced  is  eminent  and  -worthy  of  ven 

eraiian. —  Dai^SARTE. 


■1 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  291 

One  year  ago — aye,  just  one  year  to-night! 

[^Suddenly,  after  a  short  pause,  the  mcioJy  of  the  weU -re- 
membered song  strikes  upon  his  ear.  Then  the  words  are  sung 
in  loiv,  wailing  voice;  meanwhile,  his  attention  is  chained  as 
though  by  an  overpozvering  awe.  His  face  becomes  pallid  and 
haggard,  as  the  song  goes  on.] 

"  Though  we  are  parted  now,  parted  for  aye, 

Yet  may  I  be  with  you  still. 

And  as  day  meets  the  moonlight,  and  the  sun  meets  the 

sea, 
We  may  meet  here,  and  I,  I  sing  to  thee, 
Sing  to  thee,  call  to  thee,  speak,  dear,  to  thee. 
Sing  to  thee,  call  to  thee,  speak,  dear,  to  thee. 

I  know  that  my  message  will  reach  you  to-night, 

For  the  sky  is  so  peaceful,  and  clear,  and  so  bright. 

Pathways  of  light  lie  between  you  and  me, 

No  clouds,  love,  to  keep  back  my  words,  dear,  from  thee, 

As  I  sing  to  thee  here, 

O  my  darling,  to  thee,  O  my  darling,  to  thee,  to  thee. 

Sing  to  thee,  call  to  thee,  speak,  dear,  to  thee. 

Sing  to  thee,  call  to  thee,  speak,  dear,  to  thee." 

[He  rises  as  song  goes  on,  but  staggers,  as  he  looks  toward 
the  piano  with  a  wild  stare.      Then,  in  a  hoarse  7C'hisper:] 

What,  what  is  that?  the  song!  and  't  is  her  voice — 
Her  touch  upon  the  keys!  God!  She  is  there! 
Yes,  yes,  I'll  call  to  her,  aye,  I  will  go  and  speak, 
But  no;  I  cannot.     Ah,  she's  going  now! 

[These  last  four  li/ws  skould  be  so  timed  that  they  end  si- 
multaneously with  the  song.  They  should,  therefore,  be  begun 
somezvhere  in  the  second  stanza  of  the  song.  He  then  goes 
toward  the  piano  as  though  following  some  one.] 


All  li/e  is  primarily  motion.     Time  accompanies  each  birth  of  motion,  and 
consequent  birth  of  form  in  death  c/wy//V«.— Franklin  H.  Sargent. 


292         DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

My  love,  my  love!  come  back — my  heart — she's  gone 

S^Buries  his  head  in  his  haiids?^ 
Aye;  I  remember  now;  "  I'll  sing,"  she  said, 
"  The  song  once  more,  just — just  before  I  die." 
The  world  is  at  an  end — for  she  is  dead! 


THE  STATELY  MINUET, 


Hezekiah  Butterworth. 


Subject:    The  Reception  of  Prince  Eugetie. 

[This  recitation  can  be  made  more  elaborate  and  very  effective  by 
having  the  various  persons  spoken  of  in  the  poem  appear  as  silhouettes, 
dressed  in  the  fashion  of  that  period.  The  long  curled  wig  or  cue  tied 
with  ribbon,  the  knee-breeches,  the  slippers  with  buckles  for  the  men, 
and  the  pompadour  puffed  hair  and  full-skirted  gowns  for  the  women 
will  readily  suggest  themselves.  As  silhouette  pictures  the  costumes 
can  be  made  of  cambric  and  other  cheap  materials.  The  shadow  pan- 
tomime of  a  minuet  being  danced  will  be  very  attractive  as  well  as 
novel.  If  desired,  more  elegant  costumes  can  be  arranged,  and  the 
different  people  appear  on  the  stage  as  they  are  announced,  dancing  the 
minuet  during  the  reading.  This  is  an  excellent  entertainment  for  a 
school. — Editor.] 

/^^H,  fine  old  times  were  those,  I  ween, 
^^     In  the  eye  of  the  courtly  Englishman, 
When  came  to  London  Prince  Eugene 

To  meet  the  lords  of  good  Queen  Anne. 
In  the  halls  of  state  the  minstrels  gay 

Played  sweet,  on  tapestries  of  gold 
How,  well-a-day?— Oh,  well-a-day, 

In  those  arrased  halls  of  old! 


In  art  one  must  love  something  beside  art   i/  one  would  know  how  to  love 
art. — Delsarte. 


D  ELS  A  R  IE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


293 


The  halls  were  for  the  banquet  di-essed, 

The  astrals  blazed,  and  waited  there 
The  victor  for  the  coming  guests, 

The  knights  and  ladies  debonair. 
'Twas  Prince  Eugene,  of  Blenheim's  tame, 

Who  fought  with  Marlborough  side  by  side, 
Who  France  had  awed,  and  Lille  had  ta'en 

And  spoiled  the  Palgraves  in  their  pride. 
Eugene,  of  half  a  score  of  wars, 
Eugene,  who  won  a  hundred  stars! 

The  guests  are  in  the  outer  halls, 

Them  waits  the  wifeless  Prince  Eugene, 

"The  duchess!"  loud  the  herald  calls; 
The  duchess  came,  a  fallen  queen. 

Minuet.     \^The  Salutation  Music l\ 


^E^& 


=J-R< 


a? 


t 


My  best  results  h,t7e  been  attained  wlieii  /,  a />assive  subject,  obeyed  an  inner 
inspiration  coming  frotn  whence  I  know  not,  and  urging  vie  oil  to  results/ 
had  not  aimed  at. — Genkvieve  SxEniilNS. 


294 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


Then  rose  the  stately  minuet, 

The  soul  of  every  courtly  scene, 
Her  slippered  feet  it  led,  and  3'et 

A  heavy  heart  they  bore,  I  ween; 
Two  silver  pages  bore  her  train: 
She  bowed,  and  slowly  bowed  again. 

\Imitate  the  entra?ice  of  guests  after  the  stanza  to  the  music 
of  the  mi/i.uet,  bowi?ig  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  music  as 
the  salutation  music  suggests.  The  music  may  be  played  over 
as  many  times  as  is  necessary  for  the  pantomime  imitation.^ 


"  Sir  Robert  Walpole  !"  loudly  calls 
The  fine  old  herald,  bowing  low. 

The  expectant  music  fills  the  halls 

As  comes  the  knight,  sedate  and  slow. 

A  form  of  velvet  starred  with  gold, 
And  noiseless  step;  he  bows,  and  then 

The  duchess'  eye  severe  and  cold 


To  love  art  yor  art  is  to  prefer  the  work  to  its  object:  it  is  to  turn  art  from 

its  end  to  the  profit  of  the  artist. — Delsakte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK. 


295 


Falls  on  him,  and  he  bows  again, 
And  warmer  now  the  astrals  glow, 
And  sweeter  music's  numbers  flow. 
\^Imitaiioii  to  minuet.      The  introductory  sail/ tat  ion  niusic.^ 

"My  Lord  and  Lady  Castlewood!" 

"  Lord  Rochester  !"  rang  through  the  hall; 
And  while  confused  the  herald  stood 

Swept  in  the  bishops  grave  and  tall. 
And  while  played  sweet  the  minuet, 

Gibraltar's  hardy  sea-kings  came, 
And  knights  from  Oudenarde,  and  yet 

Rolled  on  the  herald's  call  of  fame 
Till  in  the  dusk  and  music  sweet 
The  hall  was  full  of  golden  feet. 
\_Imitation  to  minuet.     The  introductory  salutation  »iusic.'\ 

"Sir  Isaac  Newton!"     Silent  all, 

Not  e'en  the  light  of  jewels  swayed, 
A  modest  form  shrank  through  the  hall. 

Modest,  yet  one  the  stars  had  weighed. 
"Dean  Swift!"  the  nimble  parson  came, 

"  Daniel  de  Foe  !"  his  ears  were  gone. 
The  herald  lost  the  last  great  name. 

Powdered,  bewigged,  came  Addison, 
And  low  they  bowed  like  courtiers  gay. 
And  bowed  tlie  prince  as  low  as  they. 

'limitation  as  Iw/ore.     Music  ceases?^ 

Why  comes  the  prince  to  England  now, 
This  son  of  France,  old  Austria's  pride? 

And  wliy  fXo  whig  and  tory  bow 
To  him,  the  duchess  at  his  side  ? 


The  mere  bearings  and poisings  of  the  l>oJy  s~,uity  the  beholder,  e-jen  when  pro- 
duced mechanically. — Fuanklin  H.  Sakgunt. 


\ 


296 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 


Earth  has  no  friendships  such  as  those 
Grand  heroes  form  for  noble  ends; 

His  soul  had  flamed  as  Marlborough  rose, 
And  war  had  wedded  them  as  friends. 


-T^-r-^^^ 


^^^P=P^ 


-^--^ 


^^^s^^:mm^^^^ 


You  admire  a  7Uork  0/  art  ivhen  you  find  yourself  in  it;  and  if  you  ap- 
\plaud,  it  is  only  on  the  condition  of  your  recognizing  in  it  something  of  your 
own  character.     It  is  because  it  affects,  at  least  partly,  your  ways,  your  iein- 
[perament.     In  a  word,  you  love  it  as  you  love  a  mirror. — Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


297 


W^^- 


^iifi 


-•-  -•-_-•- 


^-j» 


:-,t:t=rt:i#: 


-t--n 


-^^ — j^ 


=B 


t — f~3=^ — =?^ 


a- 

And  Marlborough,  crushed  by  court  and  queen, 
Had  touched  the  heart  of  Prince  Eugene. 

"Lord  Harley!"     All  again  was  mute, 

The  diplomat  flashed  'crost  the  scene, 
And  said  obsequious,  "  I  salute  \ininuet\ 

Earth's  greatest  soldier.  Prince  Eugene  !" 
"Too  soon,  my  lord!   His  grace  comes  late," 

The  prince  replied,  and  turned  away, 
"The  duke  of  Marlborough!"  lost  to  state. 

Then  came  the  chief  of  Malplaquet, 
Who  once  had  swayed  the  lands  and  seas, 
From  Pyrenees  to  Tyrolese. 

S^Im'itation  as  before^ 

The  music  scarcely  dared  to  play; 

The  fallen  hero  of  the  land 
Moved  slowly  'mid  the  throngs  to  lay 

In  Prince  Eugene's  his  war-browned  hand. 


Only  through  rules  can  ive  become  free  in  our  iitter/'retatton. — Delai'MOSNB. 


\ 


298         t)  ELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK. 

Not  so, — the  true  heart  knows  its  quest 
And  love  is  strong  when  true  hearts  meet, 

Against  the  honored  soldier's  breast 
The  starless  soldier's  heart  should  beat, 

And  Prince  Eugene  great  Marlborough  drew 

To  his  great  heart  still  beating  true. 

\_Repeat  salutation  mustc.l 

The  mazy  music's  rippling  tide 

Swept  o'er  the  shoals  of  jewelled  feet. 
But  Prince  Eugene  by  Marlborough's  side 

Scarce  heard  the  mystic  rhythms  beat; 
The  airy  pages  came  and  went. 

In  blazing  halls  the  goblets  kissed, 
He  shared  that  nobler  sentiment 

To  true  hearts  known,  by  maskers  missed, 
The  heroic  friendship  more  than  wealth. 
That  loves  another  more  than  self. 

Cool  fell  the  dews,  the  late  hours  came, 

And  rose  the  moon,  a  midnight  sun, 
Uncertain  shone  the  astral's  flame. 

And  guests  departed  one  by  one. 
With  lingering  step  they  went  away, 

The  lord,  the  knight,  the  wit,  the  beau. 
Still  happy  in  the  morning  gray, 

And  bowing  low,  and  bowing  low. 
In  memory's  ear  recalling  yet, 
The  sweet  and  stately  minuet.  [Imitation.^ 

Oh,  fine  old  times  were  those,  I  ween. 

In  the  eye  of  the  courtly  Englishman, 
When  came  to  London  Prince  Eugene 


Man  is  a  vohtntary  spectator  0/ his  own  ivorks  only.  It  is  because  he  esteems 
and  admires  only  himself.  It  is  because  he  searches  /or  hi7nself  in  every- 
thing.— Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE   RECITATION  BOOK.         299 

To  plead  for  Marlborough  with  Oiiecn  Anne, 
In  the  halls  of  state  the  minstrels  gay 

Pla3'ed  sweet,  on  tapestries  of  gold. 
How,  well-a-day  ? — Ah,  well-a-day, 

In  the  arrased  halls  of  old! 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 


Jessie  F.  O'Donnell. 


["When,  after  the  battle  of  Belmont,  General  Grant,  under  a  flag 
of  truce,  sent  a  detachment  to  bury  the  dead  and  remove  the  wounded, 
they  heard  the  song  of  '  The  Star-Spangled  Banr.er'  rising  on  the  still 
air.  Following  the  sound,  they  discovered  under  a  tree  a  warriorwith 
both  legs  mangled,  from  whose  feverish  lips  the  national  anthem  rang 
out  over  the  gory  plain." — Hcadley's  Life  of  Grant. — The  music  of 
"  The  Star-Spangled  Banner  "  should  be  played  during  the  italic  lines, 
and  these  lines  sung,  if  possible.] 

^^VER  the  field  the  grass  is  red 

With  loyal  blood  of  our  Union  dead; 
The  wounded  lie  a  sickening  sight, 
And  cold,  white  faces  mock  the  light. 
Yesterday  there  was  fire  and  shout, 
Yesterday  bullets  whizzed  about. 
Cannons  boomed,  and  sabres  clashed. 
And  hate  from  the  eyes  of  soldiers  flashed. 

Only  the  moan  of  pain  to-day 

Breaks  through  the  morning  still  and  gray; 

The  bullets  are  cold,  the  guns  at  rest. 

And  the  soldier  dead  on  his  foeman's  breast 

Once  we  were  eager  to  deal  out  death; 
Now  we  woo  back  the  failing  breath; 


The  whole  secret  of  expression  lies  in  the  time  ■nu-  delay  the  articulation  oy\ 
the  initial  consonant.     The  lielay  arrests   the   attention,    anil  /■re-  ents  on 
catching  the  sound  at  a  disadiumta^e. —  Delaimosne. 


300         DELSARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

And  the  earth  dark-stained  with  blood  of  the  brave  . 
Forgiving,  offers  a  peaceful  grave. 

Up  from  the  field  where  the  wounded  lie, 
Broken  and  faint  as  a  spirit-sigh, 
Snatches  of  song  fall  soft  on  the  ear, 
A  familiar  strain  to  the  soldiers  dear. 

"  '  Tis  the  star-spangled  banner!  O/i,  long  may  it  wave  " — 
It  reaches  our  hearts  like  a  voice  from  the  grave; 
We  gaze  at  each  other  in  wordless  amaze, 
Who  raises  that  hymn  of  a  patriot's  praise? 

Here  where  death-wagons  groan  as  they  pass? 
Here  where  the  wounded  lie  thick  in  the  grass? 
Once  more  we  bend  o'er  the  suffering  men. 
But  sweeter  and  clearer  it  rises  again. 

Triumphant  it  swells  to  a  volume  of  might. 

lSing:\ 
"  Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  Jaivns  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight"  s  last  gleaming!'' — 
Then  sinks  to  the  murmur  of  music  in  dreaming. 

Our  hearts  grow  warm,  and  our  pulses  bound, 
As  over  the  field  we  follow  the  sound, 
Over  the  grass  that  is  trampled  and  torn. 
Through  the  chilly  light  of  the  early  morn; 
While  ever,  to  guide  us,  rings  out  on  the  air 
That  outburst  of  joy  that  "  our  flag  is  still  there." 
Then  we  pause,  for  against  the  rough  trunk  of  a  tree 
Leans  the  soldier  who  sings  of  "  the  land  of  the  free." 


Rhythm  is  that  which  asserts;  it  is  the  form  of  movement.     Melody  is  that 
which  distinguishes.    Harmony  is  that  which  conjoins. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         301 

Wounded,  but  warrior-like,  he  lies; 
Death-pale,  but  with  a  hero's  eyes; 
His  burning  lips  breathe  not  of  pain. 
But  send  a  song  across  the  plain: 

\^Sing.\ 

"  Ohy  say,  can  you  sec  by  the  daion's  early  /I'g/if, 

What  so  proudly  wc  hailed  at  the  twilii^hfs  last  gleaming? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright   stars,  through  the  perilous 

fight. 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  streaming! 
And  the  rochet's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  ivas  still  there; 
Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

"  On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep. 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  toivering  steep. 

As  it  fitfully  bhnvs,  no7i.>  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
' Tis  the  star-spangled  banner!     Oh,  long  may  it  7i.'ave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave!" 

With  tears  unused  to  the  eyes  of  men. 

We  carry  him  back  to  the  camp  again; 

But  still,  through  the  blood-veined  field,  that  song 

Rings  out  in  music  sweet  and  strong; 

[Sing.] 

"  Then  conquer  we  must,  iclicn  our  cause  it  is  Just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  *  ///  God  is  our  trust ;' 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  'wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 


302  DELS  A  R  TE  RE  GIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

THE  WISH-BONE. 


Leon  Mead. 


THEY  were  dining — he  and  she, 
Chattering  incessantly — 
When  the  waiter,  old  and  tried, 
Brought  them  chicken  nicely  fried. 
Grand  it  was  to  see  her  wade 

Thro'  her  j)ortion  with  white  teeth ; 
Teeth  that  cut  it  like  a  blade, 
To  the  wish-bone  underneath. 

Then,  when  it  was  free  of  meat, 
She  in  accents  soft  and  sweet, 
Whispered,  "  Make  a  wish  with  me." 
"Certainly  I  will,"  said  he. 
Both  a  moment  silent  thought, 
Then  he  on  the  wish-bone  caught. 
IVow  the  tug  of  war  began 
'Tween  the  damsel  and  the  man. 
Till  at  last  it  snapped  in  twain — 
She  had  won  it,  that  was  plain. 

"Tell  me  what  you  wished,"  said  she. 
"That  you  might  my  darling  be; 
Thro'  all  sorrow,  strife  and  care 
My  existence  you  might  share. 

Was  your  wish  like  that  at  all  ?  " 
"  No,"  she  answered,  "you  might  call 
+ 


For  the  true  artist  it  is  art  and  not  man  tliat  he  offers  to  the  admiration 
of  man.— Delsartk. 


DELSARTE  RECirATION  BOOK.  303 

Mine  a  vain  one.  It  was  this : 
That  I  yet  may  know  the  bliss 
Of  a  satin  pearl-trimmed  dress, 
Unexcelled  in  loveliness." 

Happy  are  these  wishers  two, 

"What  each  wanted  has  come  true; 

He  has  won  the  damsel  fair, 

She  the  gorgeous  gown  doth  wear. 

A  moral   has   this,  tale   my  friend. 
That  he  who  gets  the  shortest  end 
May  also  get  at  last  what  he 
Has  wished  for  most  tremendously. 


BRITA'S^  WEDDING. 

Rev.  W.  W.  Marsh. 


THE  wind  from  tlie  hills  of  Finnmark,  came  o'er  the 
icy  fjord. 
And  the  drooping  fire  of  Saltden,''  rocked  shuddering  as  it 

roared. 
And  the  niglit  was  dark,  save  the  light  of  stars, 
Or  the  flush  of  the  Northern  Lights'  tremulous  bars. 

There  was  the  sound  of  trampling  footsteps  in  the  creak  of 

the  frosty  snow. 
And  the  roar  of  a  thund'rous  knocking,  M-ith  heavy  hand, 

blow  upon  blow. 


There  is  no  Dehartc  ualk,  no  Dditarte  statiding-uositiou,  tio  DcUarU 
wan  tosif  down,  no  Dclsartr  iva;i  of  dniim  <unithiitn.  The  only  tcay  wc  Mvk 
ixnatun'Kivaii.  Mun  can  )io  nuor  ninln  iiittiiral  tliinux  than  he  cati create 
truth.  Ih' can  create  nnnatural  waij!' o)iil  /ol.-<(hoiHi ;  at  /ii,f  hest,he  dis- 
covers nature's  ways  and  lives  truth.— EiiiLY  M.  Bisiior. 


304         DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Heard  under  the  gusts  which  went  before 
On  the  oaken  bars  of  Lars  Jansen's^  door. 

Sturdy   Lars   undid   tlie  fastenings,  and  the  firelight  fell 

without 
On  the  flashing  snow,  like  a  blood  stain,  and  over  a  lusty 

rout 
Of  bearded  Finns ;  and  a  wolfish  gleam 
Had  tooth  and  eye  in  the  firelight's  beam. 

"  We   are  over  the   hills   to   Leifert's,  Thord   Ormsen   is 

feasting  to-day; 
But  the  snow  is  deep  and  the  pines  are  dark,  come,  bonda^, 

and  lead  the  way." 
"  Not  I,"  growled  Lars,  "for  no  guests  are  ye 
At  Brita's  wedding  to  make  so  free. 

"  And  hear  ye  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops?    See,  the  air  is 

white  with  snow ! 
And  hear  how  the  wolves  are  howling  in  the  pines  of  the 

pass  below. 
No  white-blooded  Finn  could  pass  to-night 
The  drifted  crags  in  this  dim  light." 

"Out,  inthingS!  Is  the  night  so  fearful?  By  the  ham- 
mer of  Thor,  my  man, 

Where  a  Norseman  goes  I  can  follow !  Lead  on,  man,  if  so 
ye  can; 

Or  the  wolves  ye  fear,  ye'll  find  by  dawn. 

And  thy  good  house  blaze  to  light  us  on. 


You  culmirc  a  work  of  art  only  when  you  re-find  yoursdf  in  it.— Del- 

SARTE. 


DELS  ARTE  llECITA  TION  B  0  OK.         3()o 

*' Lead  on!  for  the  red-cheeked  Britu  is  passing  the  good 

brown  ale, 
And  the  big-limbed  Alteu  bonder  are  dancing  the   fresh 

bride  pale. 
See,  the  night  wears  on  and  we  lose  it  all, — 
What  fear  ye,  man  ?     Let  the  good-wife  call." 

No  move!     Lars  did  on  his  snow-shoes  with  a  fire  in  his 

blue  Norse  eye, 
And  he  muttered,  "  We'll  see  by  the  starlight,  how  a  Finn 

may  go  to  die. 
Ye  shall  dance  to-night,  ray  merry  men, 
But  llela's'"'  guests  never  dance  again." 

And  away  in  the  swirling  snow-wreaths,  through  the  keen 

and  frosty  night. 
They  climbed   like  goats   of  the  hedges,  by  the  dim  and 

flickering  light; 
Then  with  straight,  swift  rush  down  windy  sweeps. 
Or  sharp,  dizzy  turns,  o'er  half-seen  deeps. 

Sometimes  came  a  sudden  thunder,  where  the  rocks  were 

rent  by  frost ; 
Or  again  from  a  treeless  summit,  through  the  lull  of  the 

tempest  tost. 
They  heard  the  wolves  of  Alten  fjord 
Above  the  bass  that  Kjaerstad'  roared. 

And  still,  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  Lars,  sharply  glancnig 

back, 
Flung  taunts  to  the  Finns  who  followed  hard  panting  in 

his  track; 


Phyxical  rmitrol  give^  a  seunc  of  rcpitxe  atut  pi)wer  to  tin-  mind.  Tlu  Itiniu 
isbttt  fhc  (h'tliiim  of  the  noiil;  ivhtn  it  move«  t<wi7|/,  {rrac^fuUfi,  t)u'  »ind 
ejrpintxi-i  it.-'ilf  irith  pofrct  ftrcilnm,  luiuo  uiiam^ciou.s  of  its  physical 
ctniirouincnt .    VAiw.Y  M.  Bisiiop. 


306         DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

And  each  taunt  was  a  blow,  for  nerves  were  tense, 
And  the  keen  air  tingled  at  every  sense. 

"Man,  go  on!  "  snarled  the  Finn  in  answer,  too  wrathful 

for  steady  sjDeech, 
I  "We   are   doing   no    work   of  woman;    we'll  follow   thy 

strongest  reach." 
And  the  grinding  creak  of  the  snowy  path 
Grew  fiercer  still  with  their  kindling  wrath. 

In  Lars  Jansen's  heart  a  purpose  grew  clearer  and  stronger 

still : 
"Their  thoughts  are  of  theft  and  murder,  they  are  meaning 

my  Brita  ill. 
I'll  light  to  their  rest  to-night,"  he  said, 
"They  shall  touch  no  hair  of  her  bright  head." 

So  the  way  dipped  into  the  shadows ;  no  light  of  the  stars 

could  fall, 
Where  the  torches  flared  thro'  the  leaning  boughs,  far  up 

on  the  rocky  wall ; 
And  the  snow  spun  back  as  they  swept  past ; 
On,  on,  down  the  steeps,  and  breaths  came  fast. 

On,  on,  and  the  way  grew  narrow,  with  a  darksome  depth 

below. 
And  a  sharp,  short   curve,  unnoticed   in   the   torchlight's 

fitful  glow, 
Where  the  coolest  head,  and  the  steadiest  eye, 
Asked  the  light  of  day  that  pass  to  try. 


Be  warm  outwardly,  cold  imvardly. —Delsarte. 


DELS  A  R  TE  EEC  IT  A  TIOX  B  0  OK.  307 

On,  still,  with  a  swift  glance  backward,  ho  noticed  the  long 

line  reel ; 
On — ^yet  in  the  terrible  pressure  Lars  Jansen's  nerves  Avere 

steel, — 
Till  he  saw  by  the  glare  his  own  torch  flung. 
The  empty  darkness  beneath  him  hung. 

With  a  foot  as  sure  as  a  chamois,  he  Icaj^ed  by  the  crag 
aside, 

And  his  torch  he  flung  straight  onward,  out  into  the  mid- 
night wide ; 

AVhile  the  panting  line  of  Finns  flashed  by, 

Like  meteors  shot  from  a  murky  sky. 

Out  into  the  bottomless  darkness,  the  foremost  shot  and  fell, 
With  a  startled  shriek,  which  faintly   came   back   like   a 

muffled  knell ; 
(So  swift  the  drop  with  arrested  l)reath) 
And  the  rearmost  pressed  to  the  leap  of  death. 

No  stay  of  the  blind,  mad  hurrying,  no  check  from  that 

cry's  vague  fear. 
With  the  light  on  their  flushed,  hard  faces,  unblanched  by 

the  death  so  near, 
They  flashed  and  sank,  with  a  rushing  sweep,  j 

Thro'  the  i)ine  that  stooped  o'er  the  erags  asleep.  j 

To  mark  the  red  glare  of  their  torches,  far  down  tlie  abyss 

leaned  Tjars, 
As  the  last  slirill  shriek  of  terror  went  tingling  up  to  the 

stai-s. 

•J 


Before  adult  bodies  can  he  molded  to  the  dexired  erprc^ion  of  high 
thought  and  feeliuii  theij  mm^t  lie  made  pla.-<tU\  suseeptihle.  An  undoing 
-process  )(H/.sf,'i/i  nearly  all  eases,  precede  an  upl>uildin{t  one.  By  mental 
intensity  aud  muscidar  restraint,  man  is  restricted,  often  unconsciously  in 
all  of  his  movemeids.—V.MU.y  yi.  Bisiioi*. 


308  DELS  A  R  TE  RE  GIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

Then  all  was  still,  save  the  wind  moaned  low. 
Far  down  where  the  dead  were  heaped  below. 


But  the  feasting  was  high   at  Leifert's,  and  the  old  brown 

ale  was  quaffed; 
And  under  the  eyes  of  the  feasters,  fair  Brita  blushed  and 

laughed, 
Till  Ivor,  the  bridegroom,  looked  smiling  down 
At  the  sweet  face  under  the  bridal  crown. 

But  the  door  swung  wide  on  the  dancers,  and,  white  on  the 

threshold,  there 
Stood  Lars,  with  a  quivering  nostril,  and  the  snow  in  his 

streaming  hair, 
And  his  white  teeth  set,  as  he  told  how  fast 
The  rout  had  leaped  to  their  death  at  last. 

Thord  Ormsen  stood    with   wild   eyes    flashing,  and   with 

clenched  fists  by  the  fire ; 
Ivor  clutched  the  haft  of  his  dagger  as  Brita  nestled  nigher, 
With  a  face  from  which  all  the  red  was  gone, 
And  a  heart  that  heaved  like  the  tide  at  dawn. 

The  dancing  and  feasting  were  over,  the  flagons  of  ale  stood 

brimmed : 
The  laughter  was   stilled,  unforbidden,  and  the  untended 

fires  were  dimmed, 
As  they  talked  in  the  dim  light  under  their  breath. 
With  start  and  pause,  of  this  bridal  of  death. 


To  attain  the  Beautiful  in  imponMhU  vnthout  a  formvla,  that  is,  a  fixed 
pj-incipte.— Delsarte. 


DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK.  ;3(j'j 

So  it  befell  at  the  wedding  of  Brita;  and  they  tell  with 

drawn  breath  now, 
In  the  long,  starry  nights  of  Norway,  of  hot  Lars  Jansen's 

vow; 
And  the  Finns,  uncoffined,  far  below 
Where  the  sun  ever  shines,  and  the  harebells  blow. 


['Breeta;    'Zaltden;    ^'Yansen;    •'bonda,  a  farmer;  ^a  name  of 
utter  contempt;  "(^ueen  of  death;  'Kyarstad,  a  tide's  whirlpool.] 


THEIR  MOTHER. 


MY  boy  sat  looking  straight  into  the  coals. 
From  his  stool  at  my  feet  one  day. 
And  the  firelight  burnished  the  curly  head, 
And  painted  the  cheeks  with  a  dash  of  red, 
And  brightened  his  very  eyes,  as  he  said. 
In  his  most  confidential  way : 

"  Mamma,  I  think,  when  I'm  a  grown-up  man, 
I  shall  have  just  two  little  boys." 

I  smiled — he  was  six! — but  he  did  not  see, 

And  I  said:   "  Why,  yes,  how  nice  that  will  be! 

But  if  one  were  a  girl,  it  seems  to  me. 

It  would  add  to  your  household  joys." 

"Well — yes,"  reflectively,  "that  would  be  nice, 

And  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I'll  do. 
I'll  name  one  Robbie,  for  me,  you  know." 
Then  the  bright  eyes  shone  with  a  deeper  glow, 
"  And  there's  just  the  two  of  us  now,  and  so 
I'll  name  the  girl  Annie,  for  you." 


Asf  there  is  ("oii.s-cioiw  and  kuco/i.stioi/.s  thnuahl,  ^<i  there  i.i  and  rnu.it  t)e 
eou.teioutf  ami  uiieotiseioii.i  teu.tiutt ;  ten-fimi  that  affects  the  iuvithtutarn  an  ] 
well  a.s  the  voluntarii i)riiee.<ies  of  the  /)(«()/.— Emily"  M.  Bisiior. 


310  DELS  ARTE  RECITA  TION  B  OOK. 

"  But  how  would  tlieir  mother  like  that  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Do  you  think  that  she  would  agree 
For  ns  both  to  have  names  while  she  had  none  ?" 
With  the  mystified,  puzzled  look  of  one 
Wholly  befogged,  said  my  logical  son, 

"Their  mother?    Why,  who  is  she?" 


'AU  REVOIR." 


A  DRAMATIC  VIGNETTE. 


Austin  Dobson. 


Dramatis  j  M.  Jolicceur. 
Personoe     \  A  Lady  (unknown). 

[Scene. — The  fountain  in  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg.     It  is 
surrounded  by  promenaders.] 

M.  JoLiccEUR.    'Tis  she,  no  doubt.    Brunette — and  tall; 

A  charming  figure,  above  all ! 

This  promises — ahem ! 
The  Lady.  Monsieur  ? 

Ah !  it  is  three.     The  Monsieur's  name 

Is  Jolicoeur  ? 
M.  JoLiccEUR.    Madame,  the  same. 
The  Lady.         And  Monsieur's  goodness  has  to  say  ? 

Your  note? 
M.  JOLICCEUR.  Your  note. 
The -Lady.         Forgive  me.     Nay.     \^Reads.'\ 

'■'•  If  Madame  (I  omit)  will  he 

Beside  the  fountain-rail  at  three ^ 


•h 


^tlshy  tlir  Hufijicdvr  rirluis  of  IJir  iurlfahlepower  of  art  tliat  the  artist 
fixes  fugitive  tiling.^,  yivex  jk  rinaneitrr  ta  lehatis  momentani,  aiul  actualiiy 
to  that  which  is  ho  more.  Thii.s  he  Ititnself  lives  on  in  what  hy  itself  has  no 
M/e.— Delsarte. 


DBLSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  311 

Then  Madame — possibly — may  hear 
Hews  of  her  sjjaniel.    Jolicceur.^^ 
Monsieur  denies  his  note  ? 

M.  JOLICCEUR.  I  do. 

Now  let  me  read  the  one  from  you : 
*'  If  Monsieur  Jolicceur  toill  he 
Beside  the  fountain-rail  at  three, 
Then  Monsieur — possibly — may  meet 
An  old  acquaintance.     ^ Indiscreet.^ " 

The  Lady  [sca7idalized^. 

Ah,  what  a  folly !    '  Tis  not  true. 
I  never  met  Monsieur.     And  you  ? 

M.  JoLiccEUR  [with  gallant ry]. 

Have  lived  in  vain  till  now.     But  see ! 
We  are  observed. 

The  Lady  [looking  roiind]. 

I  comprehend.    [After  a  pause.] 
Monsieur,  malicious  brains  combine 
For  your  discomfiture,  and  mine. 
Let  us  defeat  that  ill  design. 
If  Monsieur  but  [hesitati7i(/] — 

M.  JoLiccEFR  [bowing].    Rely  on  me. 

The  Lady  [still  hesitatijig]. 

Monsieur,  I  know,  will  understand— 

M.  JoLiCffiUR.     Madame,  I  wait  but  your  comnumd. 

The  Lady.         You  are  too  good.     Then  condescend 
At  once  to  be  a  new-found  friend ! 

M.  JoLiccEUR  [entering  upon  the  part  fortwith]. 

llow  ?   I  am  charmed — enchanted.    Ah ! 
What  ages  since  we  met — at  Spa? 

4. 


^48  much  of  truth  a*-  i.s  in  iiintr  wurk  will  be  immi)rtal;  the  ngt  {/<»«  (Jo  not 
iviishshouhl  live.—C.  Wkslky  Emerson. 


312         DELS  A  R  TE  RE  C IT  A  TtON  B  0  OK, 

The  Lady  [a  little  disconcerted^. 

At  Ems^  I  think.    Monsieur,  maybe, 

Will  recollect  the  Orangery  ? 
M.  JoLiccEUR.    At  Ems,  of  course.    But  Madame's  face 

Might  make  one  well  forget  a  place. 
The  Lady.         It  seems  so.     Still,  Monsieur  recalls 

The  Kurhaus,  and  the  concert-balls? 
M,  JoLiccEUR.     Assuredly.     Though  there  again 

'Tis  Madame's  image  I  retain. 
The  Lady.         Monsieur  is  skilled  in  repartee. 

(How  do  they  take  it  ?   Can  you  see  ?) 
M.  JoLiccEUR.    Kay,  Madame  furnishes  the  wit. 

(They  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it !) 
The  Lady.         And  Monsieur's  friend  who  sometimes  came? 

That  clever — I  forget  the  name. 
M.  JoLicoEUR.     The  Baron  ?    It  escapes  me,  too. 

'  Twas  doubtless  he  that  Madame  knew  ? 
The  Lady  [archly'].     Precisely.     But  my  carriage  waits. 

Monsieur  will  see  me  to  the  gates  ? 
M,  JoLiccEUE  [offering  arm]. 

I  shall  be  charmed.    (Your  stratagem 

Bids  fair,  I  think,  to  conquer  them.) 
[Aside.] 

(Who  is  she?    I  must  find  that  out.) 

— And  Madame's  husband  thrives,  no  doubt? 
The  Lady  [off  her  guard]. 

Monsieur  de  Beau — ?     He  died  at  Dole! 
M.  JoLiccEUR.    Truly.    How  sad ! 

[Aside.]    (Yes,  on  the  whole, 

How  fortunate  !     Beau-j9?'e  ? — Beau-vaw? 

Which  can  it  be  ?    Ah,  there  they  go !) 


In  reyard  to  art,  crtrii  attcmiit  <if  a  cunstitutUjii  will  he  sti'uck  with 
paralysis  until  music,  liDiiumrr.  mul  iila.'<tic  art,  these  three  co-necessary 
bases  of  art,  aretauuht  unitriUii  ks  tlic;/  are  together  united  to  the  con- 
stituent essences  of  our  bei?^/.— Delsartk. 
i. . . ^ 


'So  I  think  after  tliat  I   iiia.y  spake  to  the  praist." 


The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest. 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast. 


DEL8ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  313 

Madame,  your  enemies  retreat 

Witli  all  the  honors  of — defeat. 
The  Lady.         Thanks  to  Monsieur.    Monsieur  has  showTi 

A  skill' Preville  would  not  disown. 
M,  JoLiCGEUR.    You  flatter  me.    AYe  need  no  skill 

To  act  so  nearly  what  we  will. 

Nay, — what  may  come  to  pass,  if  fate 

And  Madame  bid  me  cultivate — 
The  Lady  [anticipating']. 

Alas !  no  farther  than  the  gate. 

Monsieur,  besides,  is  too  polite 

To  profit  by  a  jest  so  slight. 
M.  JoLiccEUR.    Distinctly.    Still,  I  did  but  glance 

At  possibilities — of  chance. 
The  Lady.         AVhich  may  not  serve  Monsieur,  I  fear, 

Beyond  the  little  grating  here. 
M.  JoLiccEUR  [aside'\. 

(She's  perfect.     One  may  get  too  far. 

Piano.,  sano.) 

[They  reach  the  gates.] 
Here  we  are. 

Permit  me,  then. 

[Placing  her  in  the  carriage.] 
And  Madame  goes  V 

Your  coachman  ?     Can  I  ? 
The  Lady  [smiling].  Thanks,  he  knows. 

Thanks,  thanks! 
M.  JoLKa:iH  [insidiousli/].    And  must  we  not  renew 

Our — Ems  acquaint<mceship  ? 
The  Lady  [still  smiling].  Adieu! 

My  thanks  instead ! 


In  DcUartc  culture  only  normal  types  ami  conditions  are  tairrn  a.i 
standanU.  To  hr  natural  i.s  not  to  yieht  to  one''s  itcvuliaritics ;  it  is  to  get 
free  from  all  pcculiariticK.—K>nL\  M.  Bishop. 


314         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

M.  JoLiccEUR  [with pathos].     It  is  too  hard 

{^Laying  his  hand  on  the  grating.] 
To  find  one's  Paradise  is  barred ! 
The  Lady.         Nay.    Virtue  is  her  own  reward ! 

{Exit.] 

M.  JOLICCEUE  {solus]. 

Bean-vaw  ? — Bean-va//ow  ? — Beau-ma^tozr  ?- 
But  that's  a  trifle ! 

[  Waving  hand  after  carriage.  ] 
Au  re  voir! 


T'WARD  ARCADIE. 


Egan  Mew. 


o 


{To  the  audience.] 
|UR  play  is  short,  requiring  little  casting; — 
Two  people  in  a  sweet  conservatory ; 
Later  may  be 
We'll  chance  to  see 
This  couple  trip  it  into  Arcadie, 
Thinking  their  ecstasy  forever  lasting. 

She.     Our  waltz  at  last!    Yet  let  it  go; 

I've  danced  through  one  with  Hugh  Defoe, 
And  learned  to  weigh  that  guardsman's  toe — 
His  step  is  all  too  dashing. 
He.      Yes  ?     Then  rest  we  will  and  hear  the  flow 
Of  fiddle  and  of  piccolo ; 
I'll  watch— 


Before  treating  of  any  f^uhjcct  tivo  thingx  are  nece,'<Karri  for  the  artist  to 
learn:  (1)  What  he  ought  to  seek  in  the  subject ;  (?)  where  to  find  ichat  he 
8ce/c8.— Delsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  REGIT  A  TlON  BOOK.         'ill 

She.  The  dancers  ? 

Hb.  Ah,  no, — 

Your  eyelids  flashing. 
She.     Monsieur y  de grdce  ...   "In  Arcadie," 

I  see  this  waltz  is  said  to  be ; 

How  sweet  the  music's  melody 
And  fountain  plashing  ! 
He.       "In  Arcadie?"     Have  you  been  there ? 
Sue.     Is  it  the  region  of  the  stair. 

Far  up  above  the  candles'  flare, 
And  cymbals'  clashing? 
He.      Sometimes  perhaps — 
She.  You  know  it,  then ; 

You've  entered  there?     Oh,  tell  me  when? 

Or  is't  a  land  of  smoke — and  men, 
Of  sabretasche  and  sashing  ? 
He.      I've  only  glanced  in  once — or  twice; 

Just  now,  in  handing  you  an  ice, 

Something  I  saw  that  would  entice 
All  Arcadie. 
She.     Indeed!     What — lenses  did  you  use ? 
He.      Your  eyes, — their  blueness  my  excuse. 
She.     Yours  is,  I  think,  too  worn  a  ruse 
For  Arcadie. 

But  tell  me  of  this  happy  land — 

Do  nymphs  and  swains  go  hand  iu  hand 

To  airs — like  the  Hungarian  band 
Is  playing? 
He.       Daphnis  and  Chloii  still  are  there; 

He  binds  bright  myrtle  in  her  hair, 
4- 


Many  have  mistakcidu  hdirval  that  if  the  shnuldets  are  heht  /xk/c,  a 
correct,  graceful  carriinn  icimld  he  insured.  On  the  cnutraru,  fitcu.-iino 
attention  on  the  sltouUU  rs  nives  them  a  stiff  aichu\ir<ine,<s,  whereas  they 
Khould  Ite  i>erfeetlti  free  to  perform  their  duty  as  e.rinrssion  aoents.— 
Emily  M.  Bishop. 

4, : . 


316         DEL8ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

No  whisper  comes  of  carking  care, 
Of  cold  hearts  slaying. 
She.     Go  on,  I  pray. 
He.  There  roses  bloom; 

The  golden  days  can  know  no  gloom ; 
Eternal  happiness  their  doom, 

So  Chloe's  saying. 
Yet  no  one's  bored ;  bright  eyes  meet  eyes 
Still  brighter,  for  they  lack  disguise ; 
Life  sweetly  comes,  but  never  flies 
In  Arcadie. 
She.     Would  I  could  visit,  at  season's  end. 

The  world  you  paint  with  cunning  blend 
Of  color-words,  as  though  you'd  send 

Us  all  to  Arcadie. 
Which  is  the  way  ?     I'll  journey  there 
Alone ;  the  land  seems  jjassing  fair. 
He.      Not  so — alone:  they  go  a-pair 

In  Arcadie. 
She.     Oh ! 

He.      There's  one  sweet  way, — may  I  show  how? 
She.     But,  where  and  when  ? 
He.  Ah — here  and  now : 

Dearest,  you  know,  you  must  allow — 
My  heart  is  breaking. 
She.     Sir,  you  forget!     Our  waltz  is  done; 
Through  the  camellias  dancers  come — 
Your  heart,  my  heart — I  think  they're  one ; 
Is't  worth  the  taking  ? 
He.      While  there  be  life  one  it  shall  be, 


Art  and  prayer  so  confound  themselves  in  one  ineffable  unity  tlutt  T  can- 
not separate  the  two  t/iinj/s.— Delsarte. 


DELS  A  R  TE  HE  CI  TA  TION  B  0  OK.  3 1 1 

Yours — yours  and  mine,  no  room  for  throe 
In  all  the  breadtli  of — Arcadie. 

ENVOI. 

And  so,  Messieurs,  we've  chanced  to  see 
Two  more  trip  up  to  Arcadie. 

Ah,  me! 
They  think  the  land  will  ever  be 

Their  property. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MOTHER. 


Mary  E.  Wilkins.     AiuiANGED  by  Eva  Coscardex. 


[By  special  permission.    Copyrighted.] 

^'T^ATHER!  " 

J.  The  old  man  shut  his  mouth  tight,  and  went  on 
harnessing  the  great  bay  horse. 

"Father  !" 

"Wall,  what  is  it?" 

"Look  here,  father,  I  want  to  know  Avhat  them  men  are 
diggin'  over  in  the  front  field  for,  an'  Vm  goin'  to  know." 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  liouse,  mother,  an'  'tend  to 
your  own  alTairs." 

"  No,  I  ain't  goin'  into  tlie  hoiuse  till  you  tell  me  what 
them  men  are  doin'  over  in  the  field." 

Then  she  stood  waiting.  Slie  was  a  small  wonnm.  Her 
forehead  was  mild  and  benevolent.  There  were  meek 
downward  lines  about  the  nose  and  inouth.  The  old  nuin 
glanced  doggedly  at  his  wife.     She  seemed  as  immovable  to 


Pausvs  and posc.»  arc  the  mo»t  effective,  thiniix  in  the  Uiminaije  of  tcorxis 
and  {jt^^ture^,  t>oth  indicating  reserve  force  .—EiiiLV  M.  Bi.-iuop. 


31g     ,  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOS. 

him   as  one  of  the  rocks  in  the  pasture  land.     He  slapped 
the  reins  over  the  horse  and  started. 
"Father." 

The  old  man  pulled  up.      "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  to  know  what  them  men  are  diggin'  over  there 
in  the  field  for." 

"  They're   diggin'   a    cellar  I   s'pose,   if   you've   got   to 
know." 

"A  cellar  for  what?" 

"A  barn." 

"A  barn?     You  ain't  goin' to  build  a  barn  over  there 
where  we  are  goin'  to  have  a  house,  father  ?  " 

.The  old  man  said  nothing  more,  but  clattered  out  of  the 
yard.  His  wife  stood  and  watched  him  a  moment,  then 
went  into  the  house,  which  was  infinitesimally  small  com- 
pared with  the  great  barns  near  by.  A  pretty  girl's  face, 
pink  and  delicate  as  a  flower,  looked  forth  from  the  win- 
dow.    She  turned  as  her  mother  entered. 

"  What  are  they  diggin'  for,  mother  ?  Did  he  tell  you  ?" 

"  They're  diggin'  for  a  cellar  for  a  new  barn." 

"  Oh,  mother,  father  ain't  goin'  to  build  another  barn  ? " 

"That's  what  he  says." 

A  boy  stood  near  combing  his  hair. 

"  Sammy,  did  you  know  father  was  goin'  to  build  another 
barn  ?  " 

The  boy  combed  assiduously. 

"  Sammy,  did  you  know  your  father  was  goin'  to  build 
another  bam  ?  " 

"  Yes,  s'pose  I  did." 

' '  How  long  have  you  known  it  ?  " 

"  'Bout  three  months,  I  guess." 


There  me  voices  against  which  no  complaint  can  be  made;  hut  my  heart 
reproaches  tJiem,  for  they  can  say  nothing  to  it.— Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  nEC'lTATlUX  BOOK.  319 

"Why  didn't  you  toll  of  it?" 

"  Didn't  think  it  would  do  no  good." 

"Is  he  goin'  to  buy  niore  cows  ?" 

The  boy  did  not  reply. 

"  Sammy,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  if  he's  goin'  to  buy  more 
cows. " 

"  I  s'pose  he  is." 

"How  many?" 

"  Four,  I  guess." 

His  mother  said  nothing  more.  Slie  went  into  the  pan- 
try and  there  was  the  clatter  of  pans.  The  girl  went  to 
the  sink  and  began  washing  the  dishes.  Her  mother  came 
promptly  out  of  the  pantry  and  shoved  her  aside. 

"  You  wipe  'em.  I'll  wash  'em,"  said  she.  She  plunged 
her  hands  into  the  dish-water,  while  the  girl  wiped  the 
plates  dreamily. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  think  it's  too  bad  father's 
goin'  to  build  a  new  barn  much  as  we  need  a  decent  house 
to  live  in  ?  " 

Her  mother  scrubbed  a  dish  fiercely.  "  You  ain't  found 
out  yet,  Nancy  Penn,  that  we're  women  folks,  an'  how  we'd 
ought  to  reckon  men  folks  in  with  Providence,  an'  not  com- 
plain of  their  doin's  any  more  than  you  would  of  the 
weather." 

"  I  don't  care,  I  don't  believe  Ceorge  is  anything  like 
that  anyway."  Her  face  Hushed,  her  lips  pouted  iis  if  she 
were  going  to  cry. 

"You  wait  an'  see.  I  guess  Ceorge  Eastman  ain't  any 
better  than  any  other  num.  You  hadn't  ought  to  judge 
father,  though,  lie  can't  help  it  'cause  he  don't  look  at 
things  just  the  way  we  do." 

4. A 


Tliere  in  alwaiis  in  a  phraiic  hnullii  funnciolni  one  u-nnl  irhirU  sustains 
the  passionate  a<^cent. — A.  Giteroult. 


320  DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  BOOK. 

"  I  do  wish  we  liad  a  parlor." 

"  I  guess  it  won't  Imrt  George  Eastman  to  come  to  see 
you  in  a  nice  clean  kitchen.  A  good  many  girls  don't  have 
as  good  a  place  as  this.  Nobody's  ever  heard  me  com- 
plain." 

' '  I  ain't  complainin'  either,  mother. " 

"  Well,  you'd  better  not;  a  girl  that's  got  as  good  a  father 
an'  a  good  home  as  you've  got.  S'pose  your  father  made 
you  go  out  an'  work  for  your  livin'  ?  Lots  of  girls  have  to 
that  ain't  no  stronger  an'  better  able  to  than  you." 

Nobility  of  character  manifests  itself  at  loop-holes,  when 
not  provided  with  larger  doors.  Sarah  Penn's  showed  itself 
to-day  in  flaky  dishes  of  pastry.  So  she  baked  the  pies 
faithfully  while  across  the  table  she  could  see,  when  she 
glanced  up  from  her  work,  the  sight  that  rankled  her  soul, 
— the  digging  of  the  cellar  for  the  new  barn  in  the  place 
where,  twenty  years  before,  Adoniram  had  promised  that 
their  new  house  should  stand. 

Adoniram  and  Sammy  were  home  a  few  minutes  after 
twelve.  The  dinner  was  eaten  in  serious  haste.  Sammy 
went  back  to  school,  Adoniram  went  to  work  in  the  j^ard 
unloading  wood. 

"Father!" 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  I  want  to  see  you  just  a  minute,  father." 

"  I  can't  leave  this  wood,  no  how." 

"  I  want  to  see  you  just  a  minute." 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  come." 

"Adoniram,  you  come  here."  She  stood  in  the  door 
like  a  queen,  and  held  her  head  as  if  it  bore  a  crown ;  there 
was  that  patience  in  her  voice  which  makes  authority  royal. 

— ■ ^ 


Art  is,  definitively,  a  mysterious  agent,  of -which  the  sublime  virtues  worh 
in  Tis,  by  contemplative  paths,  the  subjection  of  divine  things.— I>elsarte. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  ;321 

Adoniram  went.  Mrs.  Penn  load  the  way  into  the  kitchen 
and  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"Sit  down,  father;  I've  got  somethin'  I  want  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Wall,  mother,  wliatis  it?" 

"  I  want  to  know  what  yon  are  buildin'  a  new  barn  for, 
father  ! " 

"  I  ain't  got  notliin'  to  say  about  it." 

"  It  can't  be  you  think  you  need  another  l)arn  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it,  an'  I  ain't 
goin'  to  say  nothin'  about  it." 

"Be  3'ou  goin'  to  buy  more  cows? " 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  I  know  you  be.  Now,  father,  look  here.  I'm  goin'  to 
talk  real  plain  to  you.  I  never  have  since  I  married  yon, 
but  I'm  goin'  to  now.  You  see  this  room,  here,  father? 
Look  at  it  Avell.  There  ain't  no  carpet  on  the  floor ;  the 
paper's  all  dirt  an'  droppin'  off  the  ceilin'.  You  ^e  this 
room,  father  ?  It's  all  the  one  I've  had  to  work  an'  eat  in 
since  I  married  you,  it's  all  the  room  Xancy's  got  to  have 
her  company  in,  an'  it's  all  the  room  she'll  have  to  be 
married  in.  There,  father,"  she  contiiuunl,  "  there's  all 
the  room  I've  had  to  sleep  in  for  twenty  years.  Hero  is  all 
the  buttery  I've  got.  I  want  you  to  look  at  the  stiiirs  that 
go  up  to  them  unfinished  rooms;  that's  all  the  place  your 
son  an'  daughter  have  to  sleep  in.  They  ain't  so  good  as 
your  horses'  stalls;  it  ai'n't  so  warm  an'  tight.  Xow,  father, 
I  want  to  know  if  you  think  you're  doin'  right  an'  accordin' 
to  Avhat  you  profess.  You're  lodgiu'  your  dumb  beasts  bet- 
ter than  your  own  flesh  an'  blood.  I  want  to  know  if  you 
think  you're  doin'  rifrht  !" 


Rational  ami  pvavtical  priucipli'.->  tlun-umihlji  iitculcatnl  irilh  art-trch- 
niqiir  and  imliriitital  appUcatian  {tint  imitation)  is  an  r.rcdlrnt  fimuda- 
tion  for  oriijinaUtii  of  conception  anil  proper  a4loptation  of  tnaiter  and 
sentimcnt.—JilMK.  E.  A.  Ai.hkut!. 


322  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

"  You  can't  say  nothin'  without  ownin'  you  ain't  doin' 
right." 

Mrs.  Penn's  face  was  burning.  She  had  pleaded  her 
cause  like  a  Webster.  ' '  Father,  ain't  you  got  nothin'  to  say  ?  " 

' '  I've  got  to  go  after  that  load  of  gravel.  I  can't  stan' 
here  talkin'  all  day." 

"Father,  won't  you  think  it  over  an'  have  a  house  built 
instead  of  a  barn  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say,"  and  Adoniram  shuffled  out. 

The  new  barn  grew  fast  and  was  all  ready  for  use  by  the 
third  week  in  July.  Adoniram  had  planned  to  move  his 
stock  in  on  Wednesday;  on  Tuesday  he  received  a  letter 
which  changed  his  plans.  He  came  in  with  it  early  in  the 
morning. 

"I've  got  a  letter  from  Hiram,  an' he  says  for  me  to 
come  right  up  there ;  he's  got  jest  the  kind  of  a  horse  that'll 
suit  me." 

He  prepared  for  a  three  days'  journey.  Just  before  leav- 
ing he  said,  with  a  consequential  air : 

' '  If  them  air  cows  come  to-day,  Sammy  can  drive  'em  into 
the  new  barn ;  an'  when  they  bring  the  hay  xi]),  they  can 
pitch  it  in  there.  I  shall  be  back  by  Saturday  night,  if 
nothin'  happens." 

Mrs.  Penn  hurried  her  baking.  At  eleven  o'clock  it  was 
all  done.  The  load  of  hay  drew  up  at  the  new  barn.  Mrs. 
Penn  went  to  the  door  and  called : 

"  Stop  !  Don't  put  the  hay  in  the  new  barn;  put  it  in 
the  old  barn ;  there's  room  enough,  ain't  there  ?  " 

"  Eoom  enough  !     Didn't  need  a  new  barn  at  all  far's 
room's  concerned." 
4« . —^— — _ . A 


Wlien  the  heart  docs  not  communicate  to  the  hrain  its  generous  hiirnings 
which  illuminate  ami  fecundate ;  when  it  does  not  inflame  those  intuitions 
which  constitute  genius,  the  mind  cannot  go  very  far. — Delsarte. 


*!• 


DEL8ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.         sn 

Mrs.  Penn  went  back  into  the  house. 

*'  I  ain't  goin'  to  git  a  reg'lar  dinner;  you  can  have  some 
bread  an'  milk  an'  pie." 

Nancy  and  Sammy  stared  at  each  otlier ;  there  was-  some- 
thing strange  in  their  mother's  manner. 

"  What  are  you  goin'  to  do,  mother  ?  " 

*'  You'll  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  If  you're  through 
with  your  dinner,  Nancy,  you  can  pack  up  your  things ;  an' 
I  want  Sammy  to  help  mc  take  the  beds  down." 

"Why,  mother,  wliat  for?" 

"You'll  see." 

During  the  next  few  hours  a  feat  was  performed  by  the 
simple,  pious  New  England  mother,  which  was  equal,  in 
its  way,  to  AVolfe's  storming  the  Heights  of  Abraham.  At 
five  in  the  afternoon  tlie  little  house  the  Penns  had  lived 
in  for  twenty  years  had  emptied  itself  into  the  new  barn ; 
by  six  the  stove  was  up  and  the  kettle  boiling  for  tea.  Fri- 
day the  minister  went  to  see  her.  He  stood  awkwardly  be- 
fore her  and  talked. 

*'  There  ain't  no  use  talkin',  Mr.  Hersey,"  said  she,  "  I've 
thought  it  all  over  an'  over,  an'  I  believe  I'm  doin'  what's 
right.  I've  made  it  a  subject  of  prayer,  an'  it's  Ijctwixt  me 
an'  the  Lord  an'  Adoninim.  There  ain't  no  call  for  nobody 
else  to  worry." 

"Well,  of  course  if  you  have  brought  it  before  the  Lord 
in  prayer  and  feel  satisfied  you  are  doing  right,  Mrs.  Penn," 
said  the  minister  helplessly. 

"  I  think  it's  right  jest  as  much  as  I  think  it  was  right 
for  our  forefathers  to  come  to  this  country,  'cause  they 
didn't  have  what  belonged  to  'em."  She  arose.  The  barn 
floor  mio-ht  have  l)ec'U  rivnioutli  Pock   from    her   bearing. 


Wcall  kuinv  the  poiver  of  ccrtaiu  ixtiectious ;  we  know  that  a  phrase, 
ichich  accented  in  a  certain  way  is  null,  deccnted  in  another  way  produces 
irresistible  effects.  It  is  the  }<'ri>)>crl!i  nf  great  artists  to  discover  the  pre- 
eminent accentuation.— A.  tivt.Roii.T. 

4, _- 4 


324         DELSA  R  TE  RE  C IT  A  TION  BOOK. 

"  I  don't  doubt  you  mean  real  well,  Mr.  Hersey,  but  there 
are  things  people  hadn't  ought  to  interfere  with.  Won't 
you  come  in  an'  set  down  ?     An'  how's  Mrs.  Hersey  ?  " 

"  She's  well,  I  thank  you."     After  a  few  remarks  he  re- 
treated. 

Toward  sunset  on  Saturday  Adoniram  was  expected. 
Sammy  looked  out  of  the  harness-room  window. 
"  There  he  comes,"  he  said,  in  an  awed  whisper. 
He  took  the  new  horse  by  the  bridle  and  came  slowly 
across  the  yard  to  the  new  barn.  The  doors  rolled  back, 
and  there  stood  i^doniram  with  the  horse  looking  over  his 
shoulder.     He  stared  at  the  group. 

"What  on   airth  you  all  down  here  for?     What's  the 
matter  over  to  the  house  ?  " 

"We've  come  here  to  stay,  father,"  said  Sammy. 
"  What— what  is  it  smells  like  cookin'  ?     What  on  airth 
does  this  mean,  mother,"  he  gasped. 

"  Come  in,  father,"  said  his  wife.  She  led  the  way  to 
the  harness-room  and  shut  the  door.  "Now,  father,  you 
needn't  be  scared.  I  ain't  crazy.  But  we've  come  here  to 
stay,  an'  we're  goin'  to  stay  here.  We've  got  jest  as  good 
right  as  your  new  horses  an'  cows.  I've  done  my  duty  by 
you  for  twenty  years  an'  I  inten'  to  now ;  but  I'm  goin'  to 
live  here.  You've  got  to  put  in  some  windows  an'  parti- 
tions, an'  you'll  have  to  buy  some  new  furniture,  an'  then 
we'll  have  a  home  to  be  proud  of.  You'd  better  take  off 
your  coat  an'  get  washed,  an'  then  we'll  have  some  supper." 
He  tried  to  take  off  his  coat,  but  his  arm  seemed  to  lack 
the  power.  His  wife  helped  him  tenderly.  Then  the 
family  drew  around  the  table.  The  old  man  gazed  dazedly 
at  his  plate. 


The  expressions  of  stupor  and   of  astonishment  are  greatly  increased 
when  preceded  by  a  quivering  of  the  eyelid  {blinking).— Deis  arts. 


IJELSA R TE  RECITA  TION  B 0 OK.  325 

"  Ain't  you  goiu' to  ask  the  blesein',  father?"  said  hiB 
wife. 

He  bent  his  head  and  mumbled. 

After  the  supper  dishes  were  cleared  away,  Sarah  came 
out  to  her  husband  in  the  twilight.  She  bent  over  and 
touched  him :     ' '  Father  ! " 

The  old  man's  shoulders  heaved ;  he  was  weeping. 

"  Why,  don't  do  so,  father,"  said  Sarah. 

"I'll — put  up  the — partitions  an'  Avindows,  an'  buy  the 
furniture, — an'  everythin'  you — want,  mother,  I  hadn't 
no  idee  you  wua  so  sot  on  it  as  all  this  comes  to." 


DESOLATION. 


Tom  Masson. 


SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country  seat. 
Across  its  antique  jiortico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw, 
And  there,  throughout  the  livelong  day, 
Jemima  plays  the  pi-a-na. 

Do,  re,  mi. 
Mi,  re,  do. 

In  the  front  parlor,  there  it  stands, 
And  there  Jemima  plies  her  hands; 
While  her  papa,  beneath  his  cloak, 
Mutters  and  groans:   '"  This  is  no  joke  !" 
And  swears  to  himself  and  sighs,  alas  ! 


Harmony  is  a  imsilivc  enciyy  and  tiot  a  negative  quality.— C.  Wesley 
Emerson. 


4^6         DELSART-E  RECITATION  BOOK. 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, 
"Do,  re,  mi, 
Mi,  re,  do." 

Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth 
She  plays  as  if  she  owned  the  earth. 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
She  drums  as  if  it  did  her  good. 
And  still  she  sits  from  morn  till  night 
And  plunks  away  with  main  and  might, 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 

in  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  hospitality ; 
But  that  was  many  years  before 
Jemima  monkeyed  with  the  score. 
When  she  began  her  daily  plunk, 
Into  their  graves  the  neighbors  sunk. 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 

To  other  worlds  they've  long  since  fled 
All  thankful  that  they're  safely  dead. 
They  stood  the  racket  while  alive 
Until  Jemima  rose  at  five, 
And  then  they  laid  their  burdens  down, 
And  one  and  all  they  skipped  the  town. 

Do,  re,  mi, 

Mi,  re,  do. 


Anxitty  calls  for  a  double  movement  of  the  eyebrows:    First,  contract 
them ;  secondly,  raise  them.— Belsarte. 


DELS  A  R  TE  RE  CI  TA  Tl  ON  B  0  OK.  327 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


George  Eliot. 


[The  scene  is  between  Zarca,  chief  of  the  gypsy  tribe  of  the 
Zincali,  and  his  daughter,  Fedalma,  who,  at  the  age  of  three, 
had  been  stolen  from  him,  and  has  been  reared  in  the  royal 
family  of  Spain ;  and  now,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  is  betrothed 
to  the  Spanish  Duke  Silva.  The  day  before  her  marriage  her 
father  gains  an  interview  with  her  and  persuades  her  to  rejoin 
her  people,  then  held  captive  by  the  Spaniards,  and  flee  "svith 
them  to  Africa.] 

ZARCA.     At  last  I  see  my  little  maid  full-grown, 
Now  I  see  her  whom  the  Spaniards  call  the  bright 
Fedalma. 
The  little  red-frocked  foundling — tliree  years  old — 
Grown  to  such  perfectncss  the  Christian  Duke 
Has  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess.     Therefore  I  have  sought 

you; 
Therefore  I  am  come  to  claim  my  child — 
Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  wlio  robbed, 
But  from  herself.     And  my  child  owns  her  father  ? 

Fedalma.     Father,  yes ! 
I  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  sprang  from. 

Zarca.  There  my  daughter  spake  ! 

Away,  then,  with  tlioso  rubies.     Sucli  a  crowii 
Is  infamy  on  a  Zincala's  l)ro\v  ! 
It  is  her  people's  blood  decking  her  shame. 
Fedalma.     Tiien — I — am — a  Zincala  '? 
Zarca.  Of  a  blood 


People  form  their  estimates  of  our  citarartrr  not  nrce.-isarUu  throufih  our 
laiiiiun{H\  for  }ierliaii:<  theti  luive  tmrr  lieanl  tw  spcah.  uor  throxinh  (lir 
expression  of  our  faces  alone,  hut  titroufjii  tlie  lieariuij  of  our  entire  fuHiies. 
—ANNA  Morgan. 


328         DELS  ARTE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

Unmixed  as  virgin  wine- juice. 

And  you  have  sworn,  even  with  yonr  infant  breath, 

Yon,  too,  were  pledged  to  that  faith. 

Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts, 

Faith  to  each  other. 

Fedalma.     What  have  I  sworn  ? 

Zarca.     To  live  the  life  of  a  Zincala's  child. 
The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 
The  savior  of  his  tribe.     You,  my  child,  do  you 
Pause  to  choose  ? 

Fedalma.     What  is  my  task  ? 

Zarca.     To  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe ; 
To  help  me  bless  a  tribe  taught  by  no  prophet. 
I'll  guide  my  brethren  forth  to  their  new  land, 
Where  they  shall  plant  and  reap  and  sow  their  own ; 
Where  they  may  kindle  their  first  altar-fire. 
That  land  awaits  them ;  they  await  their  chief — 
Me,  who  am  imprisoned.     All  depends  on  you. 

Fedalma.     Father,  your  child  is  ready.     She  will  not 
Forsake  her  kindred.     Listen,  father: 
The  Duke  to-morrow  weds  me.     Then  I  will  declare 
Before  them  all  I  am  his  daughter — his, 
The  gypsy's,  owner  of  this  golden  badge. 
Then  I  shall  win  your  freedom.     Then  the  Duke — 
Why,  he  will  be  your  son  ! — will  send  you  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.     Then,  before  all  eyes, 
I'll  clasp  this  badge  on  you  and  lift  my  brow 
For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying,  by  that  sign : 
I  glory  in  my  father  !     This,  to-morrow. 

Zarca.  What,  marry  first. 

And  then  proclaim  your  birth  ?     Enslave  yourself 

t ' 

Orators  are  divided  into  artists  in  tvords  and  artists  in  gesture.    TTiose 
ivho  are  simjAy  artists  in  words  are  those  who  do  not  move  j/ou.— Delsarte. 


FRANCE    PROTECTING    HER    ALSATIAN    SOLDIER. 
By   Mcrcic. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  329 

To  use  your  freedom  ?     How  will  that  tune 

Ring  in  your  bridegroom's  ears  ? — that  sudden  song 

Of  triumjjh  in  your  Gypsy  father  ? 

Fedalma.  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  ! 

His  love  for  me  is  sti-onger  than  all  hate. 
He  will  never  hate  the  race  that  bore  hrtn 
"What  he  loves  most. 

I  shall  but  do  more  strongly  what  I  will, 
Having  his  will  to  help  me.     And  to-morrow, 
Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat. 
You — every  chained  Zincala — shall  be  free  ! 

Zarca.     Not  so.     The  woman  who  would  save  her  tri\e 
Must  help  its  heroes  not  by  wordy  breath. 
By  easy  prayers,  strong  in  a  lover's  ears. 
Other  work  is  yours  ! 

Fedalma.     "What  work?  "What  is  it  that  you  ask  of  mc  ? 

Zarca.     A  work  as  noble  as  an  act  of  man. 
A  fatal  deed. 

Fedalma.  Stay  !     Never  utter  it  ! 

K  I  can  part  my  lot  from  him  whose  love 
Has  chosen  me,  . 

All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames. 
But  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  fire 
That  scorches  me. 

Zarca.  ,  Listen  I 

Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair 
Cut  in  the  living  rock.     Opened  it  leads 
Through  a  broad  passage  furrowed  under  ground, 
A  good  half-mile  out  to  the  open  plain. 
To  find  that  door 

Needs  one  who  knows  the  number  of  tlie  steps 
J, .. — + 

I  "Die  respiration  correspomUno  to  cnuraue  mectino  tiaiii/fr  w  lo'ty.  lUcp, 
and  I'iaoroux;  the  lunos  become  inflated  to  their  utmost  capacity.— 
Gknevievk  Stebbi.ns. 


no         DELS  A  R  TE  RE  CI  f A  TION  B  0  OK. 

Just  to  the  turning-point,  to  open  it. 
You  will  ope  that  door  and  fly  with  us. 

Fedalma.     No,  I  will  never  fly  ! 
Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  soul.     I  swear  to  set  you  free. 
Ask  for  no  more.     ' 

Look  at  these  hands  !     You  say  when  they  were  little 
They  played  about  the  gold  upon  your  neck. 
But  see  them  now.     They  have  twined  themselves 
With  other  throbbing  hands,  whose  pulses  feed 
Not  memories  only,  but  a  blended  life — • 
Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 
Have  pity,  father  !     Wait  the  morning;  say 
You'll  wait  the  morning.     I  will  win  your 
Freedom  openly.     You  shall  go  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.     Silva  will  deny 
Nought  to  my  asking. 

Zarca.  Till  you  ask  him  aught 

Wherein  he  is  powerless.     Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town 
To  celebrate  his  nuptials  with  a  bride 
Too  low  for  him.     They'll  murmur  more  and  louder 
If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 
For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed. 

Fedalma.     Then  I  will  free  you  now!  You  shall  be  safe. 
The  deed  may  put  our  marriage  off. 

Zarca.  Aye,  till  the  time 

When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa 
And  he  l)o  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 
You  cannot  free  us  and  come  back  to  him. 

Fedalma.     And  why  ? 
►F — __ 4, 


Contraction  of  the  lower  eyelid  expresses  seTmtiveness.—'DKLSA.RTE. 
— 4. 


DELS  A  R  TE  BECITA  TIOX  B  0  OK.  331 

Zakda.     I  would  compel  yon  to  go  forth. 

Fedalma.  You  tell  mo  that  ? 

Zarca.     Yes ;  you  liave  no  right  to  choose. 

Fedalma.     I  only  owe  a  daughter's  debt. 
I  was  not  born  a  slave. 

Zarca.     No,  not  a  slave,  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 
'Tis  a  compulsion  of  a  higher  sort. 
You  belong  not  to  yourself,  but  to  your  tribe  ! 

Fedalma.     No  !     I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me — whom 
I  love ; 
AVho  chose  me — whom  I  chose — to  whom  I 
Pledged  a  woman's  truth. 

Zarca.     Well,  then,  unmake  yourself  from  a  Zincala  ! 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine  ! 
Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white ; 
Round  your  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten-looks ; 
Walk  mincingly  and  smirk  and  twitch  yourrobe; 
Go  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  his  presence  ! 
Smile  at  your  rare  luck,  while  half  your  brethren 

Fedalma.  I  am  not  so  vile  ! 

It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling. 
It  is  to  him — my  love — the  face  of  day  ! 

Zarca.     Will  you  part  him  from  tlie  air  he  breathes, 
Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Till  then  you  cannot  wed  a  Spanish  duke 
And  not  wed  shame  at  mention  of  your  race, 
And  not  wed  hardness  to  their  miseries — 
Nay,  not  wed  murder. 
For  that  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess 
Murdering  her  father's  hope,  her  people's  trust ! 

Fedalma.     Father,  since  I  am  yours,  drag  me  to  the  doom 
. _ + 

Every  change   of  mental  state  is  accompanied  with  a  correspotuiing  \ 
change  in  the  power,    force,    and   rhythm   of     rf«pirci/ ion. —Gkxkvikvk 
Stkbhins. 


332  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

My  birth  has  laid  on  me.     I  cannot  will  to  go, 

Zarca.     Will,  then,  to  stay  ! 
Say  you  will  curse  your  race  ! 

Fedalma,     No,  no  !     I  will  not  say  it — I  will  go  ! 
Father,  I  choose.     I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery.     I  will  go. 
I  will  strip  off  these  gems.     Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  I  should  be  dowered 
With  nought  but  curses.     Now,  good  gems,  we  part. 
Speak  of  me  tenderly  to  Silva. 
Father,  come.     I  will  wed  the  curse  of  the  Zincali. 

Zarca.     No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  we  cease  to  help 
each  other. 
Write  now  to  the  Spaniard.     Briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came ;  that  you  obeyed. 

Fedalma.     Yes,  I  will  write ;  but  he — 
Oh,  he  would  know  it.     He  would  never  think 
The  chain  that  dragged  me  from  him  could  be  aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  my  soul.      [  Writes.  ] 
"  Silva,  sole  love — he  came — my  father  came  ! 
I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief. 
Who  means  to  be  the  savior  of  our  tribe. 
He  calls  on  me  to  live  for  this  great  end — 
To  live  ?     Nay,  die  for  it !     Fedalma  dies 
In  leaving  Silva.     All  that  lives  henceforth 
Is  the  Zincala."     Father,  now  I  go 
To  Aved  my  people's  lot. 

Zarca.     To  wed  a  crown  ! 
We  will  make  royal  the  Zincala's  lot. 

Fedalma.     Stay— my  betrothal  ring  !     One  kiss. 
Farewell !     Farewell  ! 


It  is  the  mind  that  governs  the  feet  and  not  the  feet  that  govern  the 
mind. — Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  333 

THE  SILENT  ARMY  OF  MEMORIAL  DAY. 


Julia  Clinton  Jones. 


I  Dedicated  to  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Ilrpublic.1 

NEWS  of  buttle!     Hear  it  ringing 
Thro'  the  welkin  as  mo  march; 
Kews  of  battle !  news  of  victory ! 
Swelling  thro'  the  azure  arch. 

Tramping,  tramp!  a  double  legion 

Thro'  the  city's  streets  we  go ; 
But  of  one  the  tread  is  silent, 

While  our  own  is  measured,  slow. 
See !  the  ranks  of  that  Grand  Army, 

Pressing  round  us,  fuller  grow ! 
Flags  are  Avaving  by  our  standards 

Kent  and  dyed  with  crimson  stain, 
Borne  by  unseen  hands  around  us. 

Brought  from  many  a  battle  plain ; 
Waved  aloft  by  bleeding  heroes 

Leading  Freedom's  fearless  sons, 
Storming  breastworks,  snatching  victory 

From  the  muzzles  of  the  guns  I 
These  have  brought  the  news  of  battle, 

IMustoring  now  in  pale  array, 
Marching  close  to  each  battalion. 

With  each  army  post  to-day, 
As  once  more  the  rolling  seasons 

Bring  again  Memorial  Day. 


Rda.vatuin  ilor.t  not  tncan  acting  in  a  rvlainl.  lazu  matiiur.  It  nuans 
rc^t  after  cjjitrt ;  perfeet  re.-<t  after  perfcet  etfort.  It  /HCdH.s  (/ic  tii/i.srioHS 
transfer  etfenerau  from  o-\edepai-tinent  of  nature  to  another,  with  pcr/ect 
<rt,sT  and  iiracc,  after  an  citreme  tension  of  body  or  2>j-ain.— Genevieve 
Stebbiss. 


334         DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK, 

Army  Grand  of  our  Repablic ! 

Silent  Army  of  the  North ! 
Though  your  drums  have  beat  to  quarters, 

Memory's  bugle  calls  you  forth. 
Shadowy  spirits  of  our  comrades, 

You  who  fell  on  battle -plain, — 
Fell  in  hospital  and  prison, 

Thrown  in  trenches — nameless  slain, 
Soldiers,  though  unknown  to  glory, 

Uncommissioned  fallen  there. 
By  that  battle-charge  breveted, 

Honor's  epaulets  you  wear ! 
.    With  the  last  guns  left  you  sleeping, 

Left  no  sentry  by  your  side, — 
Past  your  silent  camp  no  picket 

On  his  rounds  again  shall  stride. 

There  the  file  detailed  for  burial 

'Neath  the  sod  our  comrades  laid. 
While  in  roll  of  drum  was  muffled 

The  dull  ringing  of  the  spade. 
In  those  shallow  trenches  resting. 

Shattered  forms  of  soldiers  lie, 
But  their  spirits  still  are  with  us, — 

Patriot  heroes  never  die ! 
Hark !  tramp,  tramp !  we  know  their  footsteps ! 

Know  of  old  this  marching  host ; 
Thro'  the  land  these  phantom  legions 

Meet  at  each  Grand  Army  Post. 
So  we  meet  and  march,  companions! 

On  this  new  Memorial  Day ; 


I  The  attitude  nf  the  hands  in  prayer  is  a  certain  form  of  caress.  In  our 
desire  to  have  the  thing  we  pray  for,  we  clasp  our  hands  and  press  them  to 
our  bosom  as  if  we  already  held  it.— Dei.sartk. 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECiTA  TION  BOOK.  335 

Some  still  in  tlieir  manhood's  vigor, 

Some  are  scarred,  and  maimed,  and  gray, 

But  the  legions  marching  with  us, 
Are  the  same  as  yesterday. 

'Mid  the  martial  music  sounding, 

And  the  tread  of  tramping  feet, 
Eank  and  file,  their  voices  mingle 

With  the  noises  of  the  street. 
Greeting,  comrades !  give  us  greeting, 

EoU  of  drum,  and  floral  wreath. 
Let  our  blood-bought  flag  wave  o'er  us, — 

See !  the  sword  is  in  its  sheath ! 
See !  the  battle's  smoke  has  faded, 

Scout  and  sentry,  all  withdrawn ; 
Where  the  sleeping  ranks  lie  quiet. 

There  no  drum-tap  sounds  at  dawn. 
Greeting,  comrades !  here  Ave  greet  you, 

With  quick-step  our  spirits  come, 
And  our  honored  chief  is  with  us. 

Marching  to  your  battle-drum — 
He,  the  patient  martyr-leader 

Of  the  nation,  gaunt  and  tall, — 
Hear  his  gentle  accents  teaching 

"  Malice  toward  none,  love  for  all!  " 

Xow  the  fragrant  flowers  are  lying 

Kound  about  on  soldier-mound. 
And  the  viewless  troops  are  passing 

To  the  Dead  ^March'  solemn  sound, 
Lighter  grows  the  drum-corps'  measure, 

Finished  now  our  task  of  love, — 


f]xinrx)tii)it,i  of  the  face  that  niuk  into  the  chin,  and  attitudeit  of  the  torso 

that  relax  into  the  abdomen  and  are  accompanied  hi/  utisteadine-i»if  of  the 

/('(7.S,   are    all    significant    of    weakness    ami    (<<i/)"a(i<itio»i.— Qenevikvk 

Stebbixs. 

^ . 


336        DBL8A R TE  BEOITA  TION  B  0  OR. 

Broken  ranks,  by  squads  and  single, 
Men  and  phantoms,  homeward  move. 

Once  more  meet  we,  double  legions ! 

Here  within  these  peaceful  walls, 
Where  no  battle-trumpet  summons, 

Warlike  fife  nor  bugle  calls ; 
But  with  lovely  women  near  us, 

And  our  colors  on  the  walls! 
Hark !  again  a  spirit  greeting 

Floats  above  orchestral  strains: 
"  Comrades!  war  and  strife  are  over, 

But  our  Union's  flag  remains ! 
Underneath  that  flag  together^ 

You  and  we,  companions !  stand ; 
Saved  by  us,  that  flag  of  Freedom ! 

Long  its  stars  shall  light  the  land. 
Watchwords  three  we  leave  behind  us, 

They  shall  keep  our  country  free, 
Hold  them  as  a  sacred  message — 

Brotherhood!  Love!  Loyalty! 
Bear  a  love  for  our  Kepublic, 

For  our  brothers,  one  and  all, 
Forward!  for  our  country's  honor! 

Quick-step,  march !  if  she  shall  call. 
Guard  her,  comrades,  in  her  peace-time, 

Fight  her  battles  if  she  need ; 
Let  our  sons — the  sons  of  veterans — 

Earn  like  us  the  patriot's  meed. 
Though  whole  troops  of  us  are  lying 

Soldiers  missing  from  the  roll. 


iln  ihfo  narrative  portion  of  a  recitation  the  eyes  of  the  speaker  should 
meet  the  eyes  of  the  audience.    In  this  way  he  fixes  their  attention  and  \ 
engages  tneir  sj/mpa<7i!/.— Delsakte. 


i 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  B  0  OK.  337 

Absent  at  the  call  of  bugle, 

See !  each  name  is  on  the  scroll, 
Written  with  a  nation's  life-blood 

On  our  Union's  honor  roll. 
Some  are  here  who  greet  us  kindly 

From  the  south-lands  far  away ; 
Welcome  is  the  tear-drop  falling, 

Mingled  tear  for  Blue  and  Gray — 

For  the  Blue  as  well  as  Gray. 
Comrades  shall  they  stand  together. 

Rank  by  rank,  and  file  by  file. 
When  the  self-same  trump  shall  summon 

To  the  self-same  camp  erewhile." 

Dimmer  now  the  lights  are  burning. 

Sweeter,  slower,  falls  each  note ; 
'Mid  the  dying  strains  of  music. 

Faint  and  far,  the  voices  float : 
"  Sons  of  veterans,  veteran  soldiers. 

New  recruits,  and  beards  of  gray, 
In  the  distance  echoing  bugles 

Call  us  from  your  Post  away — 
Call  us  to  our  own  divisions 

Until  next  Memorial  Day !  " 

Farewell,  friends  and  old  companions! 

Thanks  for  this  warm  greeting  here; 
May  the  (!od  whose  might  hath  led  us 

Grant  we  meet  again  next  year. 
Now,  dress  ranks!  present  arms,  comrades! 

Ladies!  we  salute  you  now, — 
Noble  sex,  who  gave  us  heroes, 


I  It  wa»  Diisarte's  discnrcnj  that  tlu-  smil  »/i(ii'(\s  in  <>lirilicucc  tti  uiiivirnal 
kiw;  that  itn  efforts  to  manifest  itsilf  to  (hr  mitn-  mnhl  atr  nstrictal  by 
the  co}uiitio)ut  imposed  by  Sitacc,  time,  and  motion;  that  the  soul  must 

I  erpress  itself  in  space,  through  time,  by  motion. — Anxa  Morgan. 
* ■ 


\ 


338  DELSARTE  RECITA TIOX  BOOK. 

Faith  and  love  to  you  we  vow. 
Cheer  the  old  flag !  wave  forever  - 

Stars  and  Stripes !  Eed,  White  and  Blue ! 
Blood-stained,  torn,  but  never  lowered, 

Freedom's  flag !  three  cheers  for  you ! 

Comrades,  till  our  next  Post  meeting. 
Come,  stack  arms!  break  ranks!  adieu. 


STORY  OF  GUGGLE. 


Thomas  Speed. 


ONCT  'joon  a  time  dere  wus  a  woman,  an'  she  wus  a 
Avidder,  an'  she  had  a  boy  name'  Guggle,  an' 
Guggle  he  wus  so  lazy  an'  triflin'  his  mudder  couldn'  do 
nuffin'  wid  him.  He  wouldn'  work  an'  he  wouldn'  learn 
nuffin' ;  an'  so  he  growed  up  to  be  a  tol'able  big  boy,  an'  he 
didn'  know  nuffin'  an'  he  couldn'  do  nuffin'.  All  he  wus 
fit  fur  wus  to  lay  up  close  to  de  kitchen  fire  an'  go  'sleep. 
So  one  day  his  mudder  ketch  him  sleepin'  so  close  up  in  de 
chimney  he  wus  clear  up  in  de  ashes ;  an'  she  snatch  holt 
him  an'  box  an'  cuff  him  'roun'  so  dat  Guggle  he  run  out 
de  doh  an'  run  ober  to  his  aunt's  house.  But  Guggle's 
mudder  she  didn'  know  whar  Guggle  wus  gone.  So  nex' 
day  when  she  saw  him  comin'  home,  she  say : 
"  Guggle,  Avhar  you  bin  ?  " 

An'  Guggle  say:   "  I  bin  ober  to  my  aunt's  house." 
Den  Guggle's  mudder  say:   "  Well, Guggle,  whatyo'  aunt 
gib  you,  honey  ?" 

+ 


Mcmements  of  thearrm  alone,  without  the  expression  of  the  face,  do  not 
mean  anything.— Delsartk. 

^ 4. 


DELSARTI'J  JIECITATWX  BOOK.  339 

Den  Guggle  sorter  hung  clown  his  liead  hke,  an'  look 
foolish,  an'  ho  say:  "She  gib  me  a  needle,  an'  as  I  was 
coinin'  'long  I  saw  some  boys  playin',  an'  I  stuck  de  needle 
in  de  haystack,  while  I  i)lay  wid  de  boys.  An'  when  I 
come  to  look  fur  de  needle,  I  couldn'  fin'  it  nowhur." 

Den  Guggle's  mudder,  she  say:  "  Lah,  chile,  you  always 
wus  a  goose,  an'  always  will  be.  Why  didn'  you  stick  de 
needle  in  yo'  coat-sleeve  ?  Den  when  you  come  home  you 
would  had  de  needle." 

Den  Guggle  say:  "  Well,  mudder,  nex'  time  I  know 
better." 

After  awhile  Guggle's  mudder  she  ketch  him  'sleep  in 
de  ashes  agin;  an' she  mighty  mad  dis  time,  an' she  took 
holt  Guggle  by  de  collar  of  his  coat  an'  beat  Guggle  good, 
till  he  v.'cnt  out  de  house  jes'  a-bawlin',  an'  way  he  went 
ober  to  his  aunt's  house.  Dis  time  Guggle  stayed  at  his 
aunt's  house  two,  free  days.  An'  when  his  mudder  see  him 
comin'  home  she  wus  mighty  glad  to  see  him  comin',  cos 
she  love'  Guggle,  fur  all  he  w^isn'  no  'count,  an'  she  kep'  on 
hopin'  he  gwine  do  better.  An'  when  she  see  Guggle,  she 
say: 

"Guggle,  whar  you  bin?" 

An'  Guggle  say:  "I  bin  ober  to  my  aunt's  house,  an'  my 
aunt  gib  me  a  lump  o'  l)utter,  an'  I  thought  I  <lo  like  you 
tol'  me,  an'  I  stuck  it  u})  my  coat-sleeve,  an'  look  here  how 
it  all  done  melted  !  "  ^ 

An'  when  Guggle's  mudder  see  de  butter  all  runuin'  out 
his  coat-sleeve  an'  down  on  his  lian',  she  say:  "Guggle, 
what  I  gwine  do  wid  you,  nohow  ?  You  always  wus  a 
goose,  an'  always  will  be.  Why  didn'  you  wrap  de  Initter 
up  in  a  cabbage-leaf,  an'  dip  it  in  ebery  col'  spring  you 
J. 


r 


Wc  must  free  the  body  from  the  stiff ne»s  of  iudMduaUty  by  yielding  it 
up  to  the  claims  of  xinivcrsality.—Ass\  Morgan. 


340  DELS  A  R  TE  RE  GIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

come  to  ?  Den  when  you  got  home,  de  butter  all  nice  an' 
fresh." 

Den  Guggle  he  say :  "Well,  mudder,  nex' time  I  know 
better." 

Guggle  didn'  go  'sleep  in  de  ashes  any  moh  fur  two,  free 
weeks.  So  his  mudder  she  begin  to  t'iuk  Guggle  gwine  do 
better.  But  slio'  nuff,  one  day  dere  wus  Guggle  layin'  up 
soun'  'sleep  in  de  ashes.  An'  his  mudder  she  wus  so  mad 
she  beat  an'  maul  Guggle  ober  his  head  wid  de  broomstick, 
what  she  hab  in  her  han',  cos  she  bin  sweepin'.  An'  Gug- 
gle hustle  out  de  doh  in  a  hurry,  an'  run  ober  to  his  aunt's 
house.  Now  Guggle's  aunt  had  a  nice  little  puppy;  an' 
when  she  saw  Guggle  lookin'  at  de  puppy  like  he  Avanthim, 
she  say : 

"  Guggle,  don'  you  wan'  dat  little  puppy?" 

An'  Guggle  say:  " Yes'm." 

An'  she  say  he  might  hab  him.  So  Guggle  'member 
what  his  mudder  tol'  him,  an'  he  got  out  in  de  gyardin  an' 
git  a  big  cabbage-leaf,  an'  ketch  de  puppy,  an'  wrap  him 
up  in  de  cabbage-leaf,  an'  start  home.  An'  ebery  col' 
spring  he  come  to  he  dip  de  little  puppy  in.  So  when 
Guggle's  mudder  she  see  him  comin',  she  run  out  to  de 
gate,  an'  say: 

"  Guggle,  whar  you  bin,  chile?" 

An'  Guggle  he  say:  "I  bin  to  my  aunt's  house;  an'  she 
gib  me  dis  little  puppy,  an'  I  wrap  him  up  in  a  cabbage- 
leaf  like  you  tol'  me,  an'  dip  him  in  ebery  col'  spring  I  come 
to,  an'  now  de  puppy  done  dead." 

Den  Guggle's  mudder  she  feel  like  she  jes'  hab  to  gib  up ; 
an'  all  she  could  say  wus: 

' '  Oh !  Guggle,  you  always  wus  a  goose,  an'  always  will 

A + 

I  It  is  the  position  of  the  eye  that  determines  the  expression  of  the  head, 
for  it  is  the  direction  of  the  eye,  that  tells  us  on  which  side  the  object  is  sup- 
posed  to  be— Delsartk.  | 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  B  0  OK.  341 

be.  Why  clidn'  you  tie  a  string  to  de  puppy  an'  lead  him 
'long,  an'  say,  '  Pup !  pup !  pup ! '  Den  when  you  got  home 
you  hab  nice  little  puppy  to  play  wid." 

Den  Guggle  he  say:  "  Well,  mudder,  ncx'  time  I  know 
better." 

A\'ell,  one  day  Guggle's  mudder  weut  ober  to  de  neigh- 
bor's house,  an'  she  stayed  dere  some  time  talkin'  'bout  de 
new  fashi'n'  bonnets  de  ladies  wus  all  a-gittin'  'bout  dat 
time;  an'  when  she  come  home  an'  went  in  de  kitchen, 
dere  wus  Guggle  layin'  up  close  to  de  fire,  right  in  de  ashes. 
Den  she  wus  mad  sho'  nuff ;  an'  she  Jes'  laid  down  her  shawl 
on  de  cheer,  an'  den  she  tuk  off  de  specktikles  slie  wus  a- 
wearin',  an'  she  caught  Guggle  by  de  coat-collar  an'  she 
beat  him  an'  smacked  him  till  de  aslies  fiew  out  ob  his  does 
all  ober  de  room.  An'  Guggle  he  run  out  de  doh,  an'  'way 
he  went  ober  to  his  aunt's  house.  An'  liis  mudder  slie  wus 
so  troubled  she  sot  down  on  a  split-bottom  cheer  an'  cried 
an'  cried  'bout  Guggle. 

Dis  time  Guggle's  aunt  gib  liim  a  loaf  ob  bread  to  take 
home  to  his  mudder.  An'  Guggle  'member  what  his  mud- 
der tell  him  'bout  de  string.  So  he  tie'  a  long  string  to  de 
loaf  ob  bread,  an'  went  'long  home  draggin'  de  bread  on  de 
groun'  an'  savin'  all  de  way,  "Pup!  pup!  pup!" 

Now  (Juggle's  nnulder  wus  out  in  de  yard,  hangin'  out 
some  does  on  de  line ;  an'  she  look'  up,  an'  see  Guggle  comin' 
an'  draggin'  sumpfin'  on  de  groun'.     Den  she  say: 

"  Guggle,  whar  you  bin,  an'  what  dat  you  draggin'  on 
de  groun'  ?  " 

Den  Guggle  say:  "I  bin  to  my  aunt's  house,  an'  she  gib 
me  a  loaf  ob  bread,  an'  I  done  like  you  tol'  me — I  led  it 
'long  wid  a  string,  an'  it  done  drug  all  to  pieces." 


T)\e  hiohest  iorm  i>f  {ic^turc  in  thr  npirol.  All  the  higher  emotions  and 
(WipiratioriK  fitid  e.rprcKsinn  in  spiral  innvements.  Well-poised  ejrpression, 
xh(m'in{i  the  individual  xtronger  than  the  emotion,  i.s  by  this  form  of  move- 
ment.—Gv.sewkxk  STKnniNs. 


342  DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  B  0  OK. 

An'  Guggle's  mudder  she  wus  so  outdone  she  jes'  frow 
u])  her  han's  an'  say : 

"  Oh !  Guggle,  what  I  gwine  do  wid  you,  nohow  ?  You  al- 
ways wus  a  goose,  an'  always  will  be.  Why  didn'  you  wrap  de 
bread  up  in  a  clean  table-cloff,  an'  put  it  on  yo'  head,  an' 
come  'long  home  like  you  ought  to  'a'  done." 

Den  Guggle  he  say:  "Well,  mudder,  de  nex'  time  I 
know  better." 

'Twasn't  long  'fore  Guggle's  mudder  caught  him  'sleep 
in  de  ashes  agin ;  an'  when  she  beat  him  an'  cufE'  him  'roun' 
right  smart.  Guggle  ran  ober  to  his  aunt's  house.  An' 
while  he  wus  lookin'  out  de  winder  he  see  a  little  colt  run- 
nin'  'roun'  de  yard ;  an'  he  say : 

"  Oh,  aunty,  what  is  dat?" 

An'  she  say :  "  Why,  Guggle,  dat's  a  little  colt.  Don' 
you  want  him  ?  " 

An'  Guggle  say:  "  Yes'm,  if  you  gib  him  to  me." 

So  she  say  Guggle  might  take  de  colt  'long. 

Den  Guggle  say  to  hisself :  "  I  gwine  do  right  dis  time." 
So  he  go  in  de  dinin'-room,  an'  take  de  table-cloff  off  de 
table,  an'  he  ketch  de  colt,  an'  wrap  de  table-cloff  all  'roun' 
him,  an'  try  to  lif  de  colt  up  on  his  head.  But  by  dis 
time  de  colt  done  skeered  pretty  near  to  def ;  an'  he  rared 
an'  kicked  till  he  got  away  an'  ran  clar  off.  So  when  Gug- 
gle went  home,  an'  tol'  his  mudder  'bout  de  colt,  she  say  : 

"  Guggle,  you  always  wus  a  goose,  an'  alwa3"s  will  be. 
Why  didn'  you  put  bridle  an'  saddle  on  de  colt,  an'  git  up 
on  him,  an'  ride  him  home,  like  you  ought  to  'a'  done?  " 

Den  Guggle  say:  "Well,  mudder,  I  gwine  do  better  nex' 
time." 

'Fore  long.  Guggle's  mudder  foun'  him  'sleep  in  de  ashes 

+ 


Art  in  the  tendency  of  the  fallen  soul  toward  its  primitive  purity,  or  its 
final  splendor.   In  a  word,  it'is  the  search  for  the  eternal  fj/pc— Delsarte. 


DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK.  343 

agin.  Dis  time  he  liad  wallowed  all  ober  in  de  ashes,  an' 
dey  wus  all  ober  his  does,  an'  in  his  lia'r,  an'  in  his  pockets, 
an'  in  his  shoes.  But  Guggle  heerd  his  mudder  comin',  an' 
he  jump'  an'  run  out  de  doh,  an'  went  ober  to  his  aunt's 
house,  'fore  his  mudder  had  time  to  beat  him.  An'  dis 
time  his  aunt  gib  him  a  nice  little  spotted  calf,  an'  tol'  him 
to  take  it  home  wid  him.  So,  sho'  nuff.  Guggle  went  an' 
got  a  bridle,  an'  put  de  bridle  on  de  calf,  an'  put  a  saddle 
on,  an'  got  on  hisself,  an'  started  to  ride  home. 

Now  it  so  happen'  dat  'bout  dis  time  de  King's  daughter 
wus  in  a  fit  ob  sadness  cos  she  had  los'  her  favorite  k'nary 
bird ;  an'  she  wouldn'  do  nuffin'  but  cry  an'  cry  all  de  time. 
An'  de  King  an'  de  Queen,  an'  de  young  men,  an'  de  fine 
ladies  dey  done  all  dey  could  to  make  de  King's  daughter 
moh  cheerful.  But  all  dey  could  do  didn'  do  no  good. 
She  jes'  cried  all  de  time;  an'  de  King  wus  in  a  heap  ob 
trouble,  an'  say  he  wus  'fraid  his  daughter  gwine  go  in  a 
'cline  an'  die.  So  he  say  if  any  man  in  all  de  kingdom 
could  make  his  daughter  laff ,  or  eben  jes'  smile,  he  should 
marry  her  an'  hab  her  fur  his  wife.  So  all  de  young  men 
try  ebery  way  dey  knowed  how  to  make  de  King's  daughter 
laff.  But  didn'  do  no  good.  She  jes'  cried  an'  cried  all 
de  time. 

But  it  so  turned  out  dat  one  day  de  King's  daughter  wus 
settin'  by  de  winder  whar  she  ust  to  play  wid  her  k'nary  bird. 
An'  she  look'  up  de  road,  an'  she  see  sumpfin'  comin'.  An' 
she  look'  an'  look',  an'  all  at  onct  she  broke  out  laffin'.  An' 
de  people  all  run  to  see  what  she  wus  laffin'  at.  An'  sho' 
nuff,  it  wus  Guggle  comin'  down  de  road  ridin'  on  de  calf. 
An'  de  calf  wus  runnin'  fust  to  one  side  de  road  an'  den  de 
oder.     An'  de  ashes  wus  a-flyin'  out  Guggle's  does,  an'  his 


T7i«  rhythm  of  gcstui-c  is  inprniwrtion  to  the  mass  moved  or  to  thefedino 
that  prompts  the  movement.— Geskxikxe  Stebbins. 


344         DEL8ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

ol'  ragged  does  wns  flappin'  'bout  ebeiy  way,  an'  his  lia'r 
WHS  stickin'  out  his  ol'  straw  hat.  An'  dey  all  said  it  wus 
de  funniest  sight  eber  seen  in  de  worl'. 

Den  de  King  ups  an'  says :  ' '  Dat  man  done  make  my 
daughter  laff,  an'  ho  got  to  hab  her  fur  his  wife." 

So  dey  sent  de  King's  officers  down  to  de  house  whar 
Guggle  live',  an'  tol'  Guggle's  mudder  she  mus'  git  him 
ready  to  marry  de  King's  daughter.  Den  Guggle's  mudder 
she  went  to  work  to  git  him  ready  to  marry  de  King's 
daughter.  An'  she  had  Guggle's  shoes  black'  so  shiny  you 
could  see  yo'  face  in  'em ;  an'  she  tol'  Guggle  he  mus'  jes' 
walk  'bout  in  all  de  nice,  clean  places,  so  not  to  git  de  shoes 
dirty  agin.  Den  she  went  in  de  kitchen,  an'  she  bake  a 
whole  lot  ob  pies  fur  de  weddin'.  An'  as  she  would  git  de 
pies  cooked  done  she  sot  'em  all  'roun'  in  de  pans  on  de 
kitchen  floh,  to  git  cool.  An'  Guggle,  he  happen'  to  come 
along,  an'  he  see  de  pies,  an'  he  say  to  hisself : 

"  De  pies  is  all  nice  an'  clean.  Dat's  good  place  to 
walk." 

So  he  walk  right  in  de  pies.  Den  when  Guggle's  mudder 
see  what  he  bin  doiu',  she  scol'  Guggle ;  but  she  'f raid  to 
beat  him  dis  time,  cos  he  gvvine  marry  de  King's  daughter. 
An'  she  made  Guggle  go  out  de  kitchen.  Den  she  call'  him 
back,  an'  say: 

"  Guggle,  go  bring  me  de  salt  an'  pepper." 

Now  it  so  happen'  dat  Guggle's  mudder  had  a  ol'  goose 
dat  wus  kinder  gray  color ;  an'  on  dat  'count  she  call  de  ol' 
goose  "  or  Salt-an'-pepper."  An'  de  ol'  goose  wus  settin' 
on  a  nes'  fall  ob  aigs,  behin'  de  barn-doh.  So,  sho'  nuff. 
Guggle  went  an'  caught  de  ol'  goose,  an'  cut  her  head  off, 

4- 


Make,  me  feel  in  advance.    If  it  is  snmethino  frightful,  let  me  read  it  on 
your  face  before  you  tell  me  of  if.— Delsarte. 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TIOX  B  0  OK.  345 

an'  tnk  her  in  to  his  mndder.  Wlicn  Guggle's  mndder  saw 
him  coniin'  in  wid  de  ol'  goose,  she  jes'  let  some  dishes  fall 
out  her  han'  on  de  floh,  an'  frow  up  her  han's  an'  say: 

*'  Oh,  Guggle!  Guggle!  You  done  gone  an'  killed  my 
ol'  settin'  goose ;  an'  now  de  aigs  won't  hatch  out.  What 
I  gwine  do  wid  you,  nohow?  You  nuffin'  but  a  goose  yo'- 
self." 

So  Guggle  he  feel  mighty  bad,  an'  went  out  de  house, 
but  his  mudder  didn'  know  whar  he  gwine. 

Den  de  King's  officers  come  drivin'  up,  wid  de  fine  car- 
riage an'  six  horses,  to  take  Guggle  up  to  de  King's  palace 
to  marry  de  King's  daughter.  But  dey  couldn'  fin'  Guggle 
nohow.  Dey  call'  him  an'  hunt  fur  him ;  but  dey  couldn' 
fin'  him.  So  de  King's  officers  went  back,  an'  tol'  de  King 
dey  couldn'  fin'  Guggle  nowliar.  Den  de  King  he  wus 
pow'ful  mad,  an'  de  King's  daughter  commence'  cry  in' 
agin,  an'  eberyt'ing  wus  in  confusion,  an'  dere  wa'n't  no 
weddin',  an'  Guggle's  mudder  wus  so  distress'  she  sot  down 
on  a  split-bottom  cheer,  an'  cried  all  night. 

Nex'  mornin'  Guggle's  mudder  fought  she  would  go 
down  to  de  barn  to  feed  de  chickens.  So  she  tuk  some 
dough  in  a  pan,  an'  as  she  push  ojien  de  doh  she  hear 
suuipfin'  go  "Il-i-s-s!  h-i-s-s!"  An'  she  look'  behin'  de 
doh,  an'  dere  sot  Guggle  on  de  ol'  goose'  nes'.  An'  his 
mudder  drop  de  jian  ob  dough,  an'  frow  up  her  han's,  an' 
couldn'  say  nuffin'.     An'  Guggle  say: 

"Il-i-s-s!  h-i-s-s!  ]\ru(lder,  I'm  a  gooso!  You  always 
say  I'm  a  goose,  an'  I  gwine  hatch  out  01'  Salt-an'-pepper's 
aigs! 


ii " 


The  fttiiilc,  i)i  order  In  r.nii  its  atlnntivf  fnire  uithimt  mul  i(.s  nlucative 

influence  vithin.  must  he  thi)ri>n{ilihi  sincere  ami  iienuine,  sulTu.-iitui  (he 

features  fnnn  ihe  intcrinr,  )iiit  irillulty  o.ssinned  aitil  hiiverinij  thinly  on 

the  .<M<r/aot'.— Rkv.  W.  R.  Ai.r.Kii. 

•i* ' 


31(5        DELS  A  R  TE  RE  GIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 
A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 


Adelaidk  Anne  Procter. 


ASMILIXG  look  she  had,  a  figure  slight, 
With  cheerful  air,  and  step  both  quick  and  light ; 
A  strange  and  foreign  look  the  maiden  bore, 
That  suited  the  quaint  Belgian  dress  she  wore; 
Yet  the  blue,  fearless  eyes  in  her  fair  face. 
And  her  soft  voice,  told  of  her  English  race ; 
And  ever,  as  she  flitted  to  and  fro, 
She  sang  (or  murmured,  rather)  soft  and  low, 
Snatches  of  song,  as  if  she  did  not  know 
That  she  was  singing,  but  the  happy  load 
Of  dream  and  thought  thus  from  her  heart  o'erflowed. 

And  much  I  marvelled,  as  her  cadence  fell 

From  the  Laudate,  that  I  knew  so  well, 

Into  Scarlatti's  minor  fugue,  how  she 

Had  learned  such  deep  and  solemn  harmony. 

But  what  she  told  I  set  in  rhyme,  as  meet 

To  chronicle  the  influence,  dim  and  sweet, 

'Neath  Avhich  her  young  and  innocent  life  had  grown: 

Would  that  my  words  were  simple  as  her  OAvn. 

Many  years  since,  an  English  workman  went 

Over  the  seas,  to  seek  a  home  in  Ghent, 

Where  English  skill  was  jirized ;  nor  toiled  in  vain ; 

Small,  yet  enough,  his  hard-earned  daily  gain. 

He  dwelt  alone, — in  sorrow  or  in  pride. 

He  mixed  not  with  the  workers  by  his  side; 


Man  constitutes  the  ohject  of  art,  and  from  this  point  he  should  be 
especviUy  studied.— Delsarte. 


DELSA  R  TE  EEC  IT  A  Tl  ON  B  0  OK.  347 

He  seemed  to  care  but  for  one  present  joy, — 
To  tend,  to  watch,  to  teach  his  sickly  boy. 
Severe  to  all  beside,  yet  for  the  child 
He  softened  his  rough  speech  to  soothings  mild ; 
For  liim  he  smiled,  with  him  each  day  he  walked 
Through  the  dark,  gloomy  streets ;  to  him  he  talked 
Of  home,  of  England,  and  strange  stories  told 
Of  English  heroes  in  the  days  of  old. 

Dim  with  dark  shadows  of  the  ages  past, 
St.  Bavon  stands,  solemn  and  rich  and  vast; 
The  slender  pillars,  in  long  vistas  spread. 
Like  forest  arches  meet  and  close  o'erhead ; 
^0  high  that,  like  a  weak  and  doubting  prayer, 
Ere  it  can  float  to  the  carved  angels  there, 
The  silver-clouded  incense  faints  in  air. 
Here  the  pale  boy,  beneath  a  low  side-arch, 
Would  listen  to  the  solemn  chant  or  march ; 
Folding  his  little  hands,  his  simple  prayer 
Melted  in  childish  dreams,  and  both  in  air: 
While  the  great  organ  over  all  Avould  roll, 
Speaking  strange  secrets  to  his  innocent  soul. 

Then  lie  would  Avatch  the  rosy  sunlight  glow, 
That  crept  along  the  marble  floor  below. 
Or  lighting  up  the  carvings  strange  and  rare. 
That  told  of  patient  toil  and  reverent  care; 
Then  the  gold  rays  up  pillared  shaft  would  climb. 
And  so  be  drawn  to  heaven,  at  evening  time. 
And  deeper  silence,  darker  shadows  flowed 
On  all  around,  only  the  windows  glowed 


I     The  attitudes  of  the  body  correspond  icilh  the  emotions  <»/  the  mind.— 
Genetiete  Stebbins. 


348  DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  B  0  OK. 

Witli  Iblazoned  glory,  like  the  shields  of  light 
Archangels  bear,  who,  armed  with  love  and  might, 
Watch  upon  heaven's  battlements  at  night. 
Then  all  was  shade ;  the  silver  lamps  that  gleamed, 
Lost  in  the  daylight,  in  the  darkness  seemed 
Like  sparks  of  fire  in  the  dark  aisles  to  shine, 
Or  trembling  stars  before  each  separate  shrine. 
Grown  half  afraid,  the  child  would  leave  them  there, 
And  come  ont,  blinded  by  the  noisy  glare 
That  burst  ujoon  him  from  the  busy  square. 

The  church  was  thus  his  home  for  rest  or  play; 

And  as  he  came  and  went  again  each  day, 

The  pictured  faces  that  he  knew  so  well 

Seemed  to  smile  on  him  welcome  and  farewell. 

But  holier,  and  dearer  far  than  all. 

One  sacred  spot  his  own  he  loved  to  call ; 

Save  at  midday,  half  hidden  by  the  gloom ; 

The  people  call  it  the  tlie  White  Maiden's  Tomb : 

For  there  she  stands ;  her  folded  hands  are  pressed 

Together,  and  laid  softly  on  her  breast. 

As  if  she  waited  but  a  word  to  rise 

From  the  dull  earth  and  pass  to  the  blue  skies ; 

Her  lips  expectant  part,  she  holds  her  breath. 

As  listening  for  the  angel  voice  of  death. 

None  know  how  many  years  have  seen  her  so. 

Or  what  the  name  of  her  who  sleeps  below. 

And  here  the  child  would  come,  and  strive  to  trace, 

Through  the  dim  twilight,  the  pure,  gentle  face 

He  loved  so  well,  and  here  he  oft  would  bring 

Some  violet-blossom  of  the  early  spring. 


Art  is  a  work  of  love,  ivhere  shine  the  Beautiful,  the  Good,  and  the 
true.— Dels  ARTE. 


DELS  A  R  TE  BECITA  TION  B  0  OK.         349 

And,  climbing  softly  by  the  fretted  stand, 

Not  to  disturb  her,  luy  it  in  her  hand: 

Or,  whispering  a  soft,  loving  message  sweet, 

Would  stoop  and  kiss  the  little  marble  feet. 

So,  when  the  organ's  pealing  music  rang,  j 

He  thought  amid  the  gloom  the  maiden  sang ; 

With  reverent,  simple  faith  by  her  he  knelt. 

And  fancied  what  she  thought,  and  what  she  felt ; 

"Glory  to  God! "  reechoed  from  her  voice. 

And  then  his  little  spirit  would  rejoice ; 

Or  when  the  Requiem  sobbed  upon  the  air. 

His  baby  tears  dropped  with  her  mournful  prayer. 

So  years  fled  on,  while  childish  fancies  past. 
The  childish  love  and  simple  faith  could  last. 
The  artist-soul  awoke  in  him,  the  flame 
Of  genius,  like  tlie  light  of  heaven,  came 
Upon  his  brain,  and  (as  it  will,  if  true) 
It  touched  his  heart  and  lit  his  spirit,  too. 
His  father  saw,  and  with  a  proud  content 
Let  him  forsake  the  toil  where  he  had  spent 
His  youth's  first  years,  and  on  one  happy  day 
Of  pride,  before  the  old  man  passed  away. 
He  stood  with  quivering  lips,  and  the  big  tears 
Upon  his  cheek,  and  heard  the  dream  of  years 
Living  and  speaking  to  his  very  heart, — 
The  low,  hushed  murmur  at  tlie  Avondrous  art 
Of  him  who  witli  young,  trembling  fingers  made 
The  great  church  organ  answer  as  he  played ; 
And,  as  the  uncertain  sound  grew  full  and  strong. 


The  dramatic  art,  hiixid  on  the  .scic/ici'  of  human  uaturc  in  the  rerdation 
of  its  inner  xtatts  tlirmnih  (lutrrxiiin",  is  tin-  ircrt'iff  of  that  jiinirr  irfurdiu 
man  can  indifiuitchi  mi'dtiiiUi  }ii)<  jifr.^niiaUtu  and  life  Inj  divcstinu  him^cljt 
and  entcrinu  into  the  characters,  s-ititatianK  and  cxi'cricnccs  nf  those  whom 
he  iK'hdlds  or  iradts  of  or  creatively  ujiai/iiics.— Rkv.  W.  K.  Alger. 
•i" — • 


350  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

Rnsli  with  harmonious  spirit-wings  along, 

And  thrill  with  master-power  tlie  breathless  throng. 

The  old  man  died,  and  years  passed  on,  and  still 
The  yonng  musician  bent  liis  heart  and  will 
To  his  dear  toil.     St.  Bavon  now  had  grown 
More  dear  to  him,  and  even  more  his  own; 
And  as  he  left  it  every  night  he  prayed 
A  moment  by  the  archway  in  the  shade. 
Kneeling  once  more  within  the  sacred  gloom 
Where  the  White  Maiden  watched  upon  her  tomb. 
One  day  a  voice  floated  so  pure  and  free 
Above  his  music,  that  he  turned  to  see 
What  angel  sang,  and  saw  before  his  eyes, 
What  made  his  heart  leap  with  a  strange  surprise, 
His  own  White  Maiden,  calm,  and  pure,  and  mild, 
As  in  his  childish  dreams  she  sang  and  smiled ; 
Her  eyes  raised  up  to  heaven,  her  lips  apart, 
And  music  overflowing  from  her  heart 
But  the  faint  blush  that  tinged  her  cheek  betrayed 
No  marble  statue,  but  a  living  maid. 

Days  passed ;  each  morning  saw  the  maiden  stand, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  lesson  in  her  hand. 
Eager  to  study ;  never  weary,  while 
Repaid  by  the  approving  word  or  smile 
Of  her  kind  master ;  days  and  months  fled  on ; 
One  day  the  pupil  from  the  choir  was  gone ; 
Gone  to  take  light,  and  joy,  and  youth  once  more 
Within  the  poor  musician's  humble  door. 
Unmarked  by  aught  save  what  filled  every  day. 


•i- 


I     The  heginning  and  the  end  of  art  are  in  God ;  the  genesis  upon  this  earth 
I  remou7its  to  the  cradle  of  creatiori.— Delsarte. 
I 
•i- _ . 


DELBARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  351 

Duty,  and  toil,  and  rest,  years  passed  away: 

And  now  by  the  low  archway  in  the  shade  i 

Beside  her  mother  knelt  a  little  maid,  ' 

AVho  through  the  great  cathedral  learned  to  roam, 

Climb  to  the  choir,  and  bring  her  father  home; 

And  stand,  demure  and  silent  by  his  side, 

Patient  till  the  last  echo  softly  died; 

Then  place  her  little  hand  in  his,  and  go 

Down  the  dark  winding  stair  to  where  below 

The  mother,  knelt  within  the  gathering  gloom 

Waiting  and  praying  by  the  Maiden's  tomb. 

So  their  life  wont,  until,  one  winter's  day, 

Father  and  child  came  there  alone  to  pray. 

The  mother,  gentle  soul,  had  fled  away ! 

Their  life  was  altered  now;  but  yet  the  child 

Forgot  her  passionate  grief  in  time,  and  smiled. 

Half  wondering  why,  when  spring's  fresh  breezes  came. 

To  see  her  father  was  no  more  the  same, 

And  now  each  year  that  added  grace  to  grace. 

Fresh  bloom  and  sunshine  to  the  young  girl's  face. 

Brought  a  strange  light  in  the  musician's  eyes, 

As  if  he  saw  some  starry  hope  arise, 

lireaking  upon  the  midnight  of  sad  skies. 

It  might  be  so:  more  feeble  year  by  year. 

The  wanderer  to  his  resting-place  drew  near. 

One  day  the  Gloria  he  could  play  no  more, 

Echoed  its  grand  rejoicing  as  of  yore ; 

His  hands  were  clasped,  his  weary  head  was  laid 

Upon  the  tomb  where  the  White  Maiden  prayed ; 

Where  the  child's  love  first  dawned,  his  soul  first  spoke, 


T\ic  hiuliist  form  of  charactrr  determines  its  oiru  erpirssiotis  ami  does 
luil  have  theni  to  lie  determined  by  the  nature  of  the  objects  it  happen;!  to 
)neet.—B.K\.  W.  R.  Aloer. 

. . ^, 


352  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  BOOK.  / 

The  old  man's  heart  there  throbbed  its  last  and  broke. 
The  grave  cathedral  that  had  nnrsed  his  youth, 
Had  helped  his  dreaming  and  had  taught  him  truth, 
Had  seen  his  boyish  grief  and  baby  tears, 
And  watched  the  sorrows  and  the  joys  of  years, 
Had  lit  his  fame  and  hope  with  sacred  rays, 
And  consecrated  sad  and  happy  days, 
Had  blessed  his  happiness,  and  soothed  his  pain, 
Now  took  her  faithful  servant  home  again. 

He  rests  in  peace.     Some  travelers  mention  yet 

An  organist  whose  name  they  all  forget. 

He  has  a  holier  and  a  nobler  fame 

By  poor  men's  hearths,  who  love  and  bless  the   name 

Of  a  kind  friend;  and  in  low  tones  to-day 

Speak  tenderly  of  him  who  passed  away. 

Too  poor  to  help  the  daughter  of  their  friend, 

They  grieved  to  see  the  little  pittance  end ; 

To  see  her  toil  and  strive  with  cheerful  heart. 

To  bear  the  lonely  orphan's  struggling  part; 

They  grieved  to  see  her  go  at  last  alone 

To  English  kinsmen  she  had  never  known. 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  holds  her  father's  name. 

And  tenderly  and  proudly  keeps  his  fame; 

And  while  she  works  with  thrifty  Belgian  care. 

Past  dreams  of  childhood  float  upon  the  air; 

Some  strange  old  chant,  or  solemn  Latin  hymn. 

That  echoed  through  the  old  cathedral  dim. 

When  as  a  little  child  each  day  she  went 

To  kneel  and  pray  by  an  old  tomb  in  Ghent. 


JBuen  as  God,  art  hides  iUtdf  in  light.    There  it  rests,  as  inaccessible  to 
naiTi  cwriositj/  as  to  egotistic  speculation.— Dklsarte. 


DELSABTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  353 

THE  WEDDING-GOWN. 


Etta  W.  Pierce. 


BRING  it  from  the  oaken  press ;  full  fifty  years  ago 
I  sewed  those  seams,  my  heart  all  full  of  youth  and 

hope  and  Joe — 
Joe,  whose  wife  I  was  to  be — my  lover,  strong  and  brown. 
Captain  of  the  stanchest  craft  that  sailed  from  Gloucester 

town. 
It  seems  a  worthless  thing  to  hold  so  carefully  in  store, 
This  poor,  old,  faded  bridal  dress,  which  no  bride  ever  wore; 
Cut  in  the  curious  style  of  half  a  century  ago. 
With   scanty  skirt  and  'broidered  bands — my   own   hands 

shaped  it  so. 
Niece  Hester,  spread  it  on  my  bed — my  eyes  grow  blind  with 

tears ; 
I  touch  its  limp  and  yellow  folds,    and   lo!    the   long   dead 

years 
Come  trooping  back  like  churchyard  ghosts.     This  was  my 

wedding-gown — 
'Twas  made  the  year  the  equiuoi  brouglit  woe  to  Gloucester 

town. 

Ah,  I  remember  well  the  night   I    walked    the   beacli  with 

him — 
The  moon  was  rising  just  above  the  ocean's  purple  rim, 
And  all  the  savage  Cape  Ann  rocks  shown   in   her  mellow 

light; 
The  time  Avas  spring,  and  heaven  itself  seemed  close  to  us 

that  night. 

. — _ : 4. 

The  nearer  to  the  central  insertions  of  the  muscJfs  the  initial  impulscjs 

take  effect,  so  much  the  hmger  the  lines  then  Itiim.the  acitter  the  anules 
theii  suliteiid,  the  vaster  the  seivncnts  thrii  cut  aiul  the  areas  they  suceu. 
This  suinicsts  to  the  spectator's  itu<minatii>n,  iriihoitt  his  laioiritio  the 
mcauini)  or  iiround  of  if,  a  {lodlike  (liiniitu  ami  ureal iiess.—Rv.y.  W".   R. 


354  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

We  heard  the  cool  waves  beat  the  shore,  the  seabird's 
startled  cry; 

Like  spirits  in  the  dark,  we  saw  the  coasters  flitting  by. 

High  in  their  towers  the  beacons  burned,  like  wintry  em- 
bers red. 

From  Ipswich,  down  the  rough  sea-line,  to  crag-girt  Mar- 
blehead. 

"  I  love  you,  Nan!  "  Joe  said,  at  last,  in  his  grave,  simple 
way — 

I'd  felt  the  words  a-coming,  child,  for  many  a  long,  glad 
day. 

I  hung  my  head,  he  kissed  me — oh,  sweetest  hour  of  life! 

A  stammering  word,  a  sigh,  and  I  was  Joe's  own  promised 
wife. 

But  fishing-folks  have  much  to  do;  my  lover  could  not  stay — 
The  gallant  Gloucester  fleet  was  bound  to  waters  far  away, 
Where  wild  storms  swoop,  and  shattering  fogs  muster  their 

dim,  gray  ranks, 
And  spread  a  winding-sheet  for  men  upon  the  fatal  Banks. 
And  he,  my  Joe,  must  go  to  reap  the  harvest  of  the  deep. 
While  I,  like   other   Avomen,  staid   behind   to   mourn  and 

weej^ ; 
And  I  would  see  his  face  no  more  till  autumn  woods  were 

brown. 
His  schooner  Nan  was  swift  and  new,  the  pride  of  Gloucester 

town ; 
He  called  her  by  my  name.     "  'Tis  sure  to  bring  me  luck," 

said  Joe. 
She  spread  her  wings,  and  througli  my  tears  I  stood   and 

watched  her  go. 


"J- 


-+ 


The  transparent  beauties  of  art  cannot  be  contemplated  except  by  that 
clearnens  of  vision  which  belongs  only  to  tlie  pure  in  /leort.— Delsakte. 


y 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  B  0  OK.         355 

The  days  grew  hot  and  long ;  I  scMcd  tlie  crisp  and  sliining 

seains 
Of  this,  my  wedding-gown,  and  dreamed  a  thousand  happy 

dreams 
Of  future  years  and  Joe,    whik>   leaf   nnd   bud    and   sweet 

marsh-llowei- 
I  fasliioned  on  the  muslin  fine,  for  many  a  patient  hour. 
In  Gloucester  wood  the  wild   rose   bloomed,    and   shed   its 

sweets  and  died. 
And  dry  and  tawny  grew  the  grass  along  the  marshes  wide. 
The  last  stitch  in  my  gown  was  set ;  I  looked  across  the  sea — 
"  Fly  fast,  oh,  time,  fly  fast!  "    I   said,    "and   bring   him 

home  to  me; 
And  I  will  deck  my  yellow  hair  and  don  my  bridal  gown. 
The  day  the  gallant  lishing-lleet  comes  back  to  Gloucester 

town !  " 

The  rough  skies  darkened  o'er  the  deep,  loud  blew  the  au- 
tumn gales; 

AMth  anxious  eyes  the  fishers'  wives  watched  for  the  home- 
bound  sails 

From  Gloucester  shore,  and  Eockport  crags,  lashed  by  the 
breakers  dread, 

From  cottage  doors  of  Beverly,  and  rocks  of  Marblehead. 

Ah,  child,  with  trembling  hand  I  set  my  candle  at  the 
pane, 

AA'^ith  fainting  heart  and  choking  breath,  I  heard  the  dol- 
orous rain — 

The  sea  that  beat  the  groaning  beach  with  wild  and  thun- 
derous shocks, 

The  black  death  calling,  calling  from  the  savage  equinox; 


T     Tlic  inner  temper  of  the  xoul  tcnd.t  tit  i<hoic  itself  in  the  <mter  exproi- 1 
sion  of  the  visage,  and  the<ntter  erpresMnn  tends,  in  return,  to  deepen  and 
prolona  in  the  traits  of  the  character  the  (piality  of  the  mood  it  reveals.—  ' 

I  Rev.  W.  R.  Alger. 
•h + 


356  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

The  flap  of  sails,  the  crash  of  masts,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me, 
And  cries  of  strong  men  drowning  in  the  ckitches  of  the 
sea. 

I  never  wore  my  wedding-gown,  so  crisp  and  fine  and  fair ; 
I  never  decked  with  bridal  flowers  my  pretty  yellow  hair, 
No  bridegroom  came  to  claim  me  when  the  autumn  leaves 

Avere  sere, 
For  there  was  bitter  wailing  on  the  rugged  coast  that  year ; 
And  vain   was   further  vigil   from   its  rocks  and  beaches 

brown 
For  never  did  the  fishing-fleet  sail  back  to  Gloucester  town. 

'Twas  fifty  years  ago.     There,  child,  put  back   the   faded 

dress. 
My  winding-sheet  of  youth  and  hope,  into  the  oaken  press. 
My  life  hath  known  no  other  joy,  my  heart  no  other  glow, 
Feeble  and  worn,  it  still  beats  on  in  faitlif ul  love  for  Joe ; 
And,  like  some  hulk  cast  on   a  shore  by  waters  sore   dis- 
tressed, 
I  wait  until  he  calls  me  from  his  own  good  place  of  rest. 
********* 

She  woke  at  dawn  and  lifted  up  her  head  so  old  and  gray. 
And  stared  across  the  sandy  beach,  and  o'er  the  low  blue  bay. 
It  was  the  hour  when  mists  depart  and  midnight  phantoms 

flee. 
The  rosy  sun  Avas  blushing  red  along  the  splendid  sea. 
A  rapture  lit  her  face.     "  The  bay  is  white  with  sails!  "  she 

cried, 
"  They  sweep  it  like   the    silver   foam   of  waves  at   rising 

tide — 
A + 


What  is  tuHually  given  the  name  of  instruction  in  the  matter  of  art  pro- 
ceeds onh.i  from  an  instinct  badly  defined  and  arbit7-arily  interpreted.— 
Delsarte. 


/ 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  Tl  OX  B  0  OK.  357 

Sails  from  an  unknown  sea.  Oh,  liastc  and  bring  my  wed- 
ding-gown— 

It  is  tlie  long-lost  fishing-fleet  come  back  to  Gloucester 
town ! 

And  look !  his  Nan  leads  all  the  rest.  Dear  Lord,  I  see 
my  Joe ! 

He  beckons  from  her  shining  deck — haste,  friends,  for  I 
must  go. 

The  old,  old  light  is  in  his  eyes,  the  old  smile  on  his  lips; 

All  grand  and  pale  he  stands  among  the  crowding,  white- 
winged  ships. 

This  is  our  wedding-morn.  At  last  the  bridegroom  claims 
his  bride. 

Sweetheart,  I  have  been  true ;  my  hand — here — take  it !  " 
Then  she  died. 


WHAT  WAS  IT? 


Sidney  Dayre. 


GUESS  what  he  had  in  his  i)oeket. 
I\Iarbles  and  tops  and  sundry  toys 
Such  as  always  belong  to  boys, 
A  bitter  apple,  a  leathern  ball  ? — 
Not  at  all. 

What  did  he  have  in  his  pocket? 
A  bu])ble  pipe,  and  a  rusty  si'rew, 
A  brassy  watch-key,  broken  in  two, 


I     Some  few  nrgauismn  stccm  a  mnss  of  rJcctt^ic  Ketmhility,  all  alive,  and. 

\in  resmiii^e  to  the  touches  of  ideas  within,  oivino  (ntt  titteil  tones  and 
aHiculations  thrinieih  the  u'hole  diajuxson  of  hununiitii.  This  is  a  residt  of 
the  complete   comhination   of  instinctive    sensil>ility  in    the  mind   and 

I  dcvcloiicd  elocutionary  apparatus  in  the  bodj/.— Rev.  W.  R.  Algkr. 
,{. _ '1 4 


358  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

A  fish-hook  in  a  tangle  of  string  ? — 
No  such  tiling. 

What  did  he  have  in  his  i^ocket  ? 

Ginger-bread  crumbs,  a  whistle  he  made, 
Buttons,  a  knife  with  a  broken  blade, 
A  nail  or  two  and  a  rubber  gun  ? — 
Neither  one. 

What  did  he  have  in  his  pocket  ? 
Before  he  knew  it  slyly  crept 
Under  the  treasures  carefully  kept, 
Aiid  away  they  all  of  them  quickly  stole- 
'Twas  a  hole ! 


MEN'S  WICKED  WAYS. 


H 


E  kissed  me,  and  I  knew  'twas  wrong. 
For  he  was  neither  kith  nor  kin — 
Need  one  do  penance  very  long 
For  such  a  tiny  little  sin  ? 

He  pressed  my  hand ;  that  wasn't  right — 
Why  will  men  have  such  wicked  ways  ? 

It  wasn't  for  a  minute  quite. 

But  in  it  there  were  days  and  days. 

There's  mischief  in  the  moon,  I  know ; 

I'm  positive  I  saw  her  wink 
When  I  requested  him  to  go — 

I  meant  it,  too,  I  almost  think. 

t — ^ . 

Mime,  eloquence,  and  plastic  art  are  the  attributive  specialties  of  an  all 
which  IS  taiMJht  nowhere  and  which  hm  not  even  been  denned.— Dklsartk. 


^     DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  359 

But,  after  all,  I'm  not  to  blame; 

He  took  the  kiss.     I  do  think  men 
Are  quite  without  a  sense  of  shame — 

I  wonder  when  he'll  call  ajrain ! 


THE  BIRD  AMONG  THE  BLOOMS. 


Marion  Short. 


THE  apple-blooms  come  falling  down, 
Falling,  falling,  falling; 
A  little  bird  among  the  blooms 

Keeps  calling,  calling,  calling : 
"  Come  hither,  Rob,  come  hither.  May, 
Ohee-chee,  I've  waited  all  the  day 
To  hear  what  Robert  has  to  say, 

P-r-r-link,  p-r-r-link,  chee-chee." 

Adown  the  lane  the  lovers  come 

Slowly,  clowly,  slowly; 
He  whispers  something  in  her  ear, 

Lowly,  lowly,  lowly. 
At  length  they  reach  the  rustic  seat. 
Then  birdie  sings:  "  Repeat,  repeat, 
Repeat  for  me  those  speeches  sweet, 

P-r-r-link,  p-r-r-link,  chee-chee." 

Says  Robert,  then:  "I  love  you,  May, 

Dearly,  dearly,  dearly !  " 
Sings  birdie,  then:  "  He  loves  you,  May, 

Clearly,  clearly,  clearly." 


AU  actio)!  from  the  dhlal  crtrcmiticmof  (he  iicrvcx  in  fci'crinh,  (witctiiiig, 
anxious,  with  a  tiil{ict\i  and  wa-atcful  e.rpensivcnf^s  of  force,  while  action 
from  their  central  c.rtremities  i'.<  steady,  harmoniouK,  commandino,  econ- 

]  omical  of  force.— Rev.  W.  R.  Algkk. 

t 1^ . . 


360  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

Says  she :  "I  know  not  what  to  say !  " 
Says  Robert:   "Darling,  name  the  day!  " 
Sings  birdie,  then:  " "Without  delay ! 

P-r-r-link,  p-r-r-link,  chee-chee." 
******* 
The  apple-blooms  come  falling  down, 

Falling,  falling,  falling; 
The  years  have  passed,  but  still  the  bird 

Keeps  calling,  calling,  calling; 
"  Come  hither,  Kob,  come  hither,  May, 
And  bring  the  youngsters  out  to  play, 
Chee-chee,  I've  waited  all  the  day, 

P-r-r-link,  p-r-r-link,  chee-chee." 


A  SISTERLY  SCHEME. 


H.  C.  BuNNER.     Arranged  by  Eliza  A.  McGill. 


[From  Pnelt,  by  special  permission.] 

AWAY  np  in  the  very  heart  of  Maine  there  is  a  mighty 
lake  among  the  mountains.  Up  in  this  wild  region 
you  will  find  a  fashionable  summer  hotel,  with  electric  bells, 
and  seven-course  dinners,  and  guests  who  dress  three  times 
a  day.  On  the  beach  near  this  hotel,  where  the  canoes 
were  drawn  up  in  a  line,  there  stood  one  summer  morning 
a  curly-haired, fair  young  man — not  so  young  either — whose 
cheeks  were  comfortably  red  as  he  looked  first  at  his  o^vn 
canoe,  high  and  dry,  loaded  with  rods  and  landing-net  and 
luncheon-basket,  and  then  at  another  canoe  fast  disappear- 
ing down  the  lake,  wherein  sat  a  young  man  and  woman. 

T 1 

As  Itmy  as  the  work  of  God  has  not  been  altered,  disfigured,  coarsened 
by  man  under  pretext  of  progress,  he  passes  by  it,  a  cold  and  indifferent  \ 
I  spectator.— Delsakte. 


/^ 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  361 

"Dropped  again,  Mr.  Morpeth?" 

The  young  man  looked  up  and  saw  a  saucy  face  laughing 
at  liim.     A  girl  Avas  sitting  on  a  string-piece  of  the  dock. 

"Your  sister,''  replied  the  young  man,  with  dignity, 
' '  was  to  have  gone  fishing  with  me ;  but  she  remembered 
at  the  last  moment  that  she  had  a  prior  engagement  with 
Mr.  Brown." 

"She  hadn't,"  said  the  girl.  "I  heard  them  make  it  up 
last  evening,  after  you  Avent  to  bed." 

The  young  man  clean  forgot  himself. 

"  She's  the  most  heartless  coquette  in  the  world!" 

"  She  is  all  that,"  said  the  young  person  on  the  string- 
piece  of  the  dock,  "and  more  too.  And  yet,  I  suppose, 
you  want  her  all  the  same  ? ''' 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,"  said  the  young  man,  miserably. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, Mr.  Mor- 
peth. You've  been  hanging  around  Pauline  for  a  year,  and 
you  are  the  only  one  of  the  men  she  keeps  on  a  string  who 
hasn't  snubbed  me.  Now,  if  you  want  me  to,  I'll  give  you 
a  lift." 

"A— a— what?" 

* '  A  lift.  You  are  wasting  your  time.  Pauline  has  no 
use  for  devotion.  It  is  a  drui^  iu  the  market  with  her — 
has  been  for  five  seasons.  There  is  only  one  way  to  get 
her  worked  up.  Two  fellows  tried  it  and  they  nearly  got 
there ;  but  they  weren't  game  enough  for  that.  I  think  that 
you're  game  enough,  and  Til  tell  you, — you've  got  to  make 
her  jealous. " 

"  Make  her  jealous  of  me  ?  " 

"No!"  said  the  friend,  with  infinite  scorn;  "  make  her 
jealous  of  the  other  girl.     0 !  but  you  men  are  so  stupid !  " 


I     Ev€fy  passion  ha«  its  natural  law  of  fxprcssion,  and  all  these  laws  are 
I  related  and  consistent  in  an  honest,  earnest  character,  incoherent  only  in 
I  a  dUfcordant  or  hypocritical  character.— liKX.  W.  R.  Alger. 
4, . 


362  DELS  A  R  TE  REGIT  A  TlOJSf  B  0  OK. 

The  young  man  pondered  a  moment. 

"Your  scheme  is  a  good  one.  Only  it  involves  the  dis- 
covery of  another  girl.  Well,  doesn't  it  strike  you  that  if  I 
were  to  develo]3  a  sudden  admiration  for  any  one  of  these 
other  young  ladies  Avhose  charms  I  have  hitherto  neglected, 
it  would  come  tardy  off,  lack  artistic  verisimilitude,  so  to 
speak  ? " 

"Eather,"  was  Miss  Flossy 's  prompt  reply;  "  especially 
as  there  isn't  one  of  them  fit  to  flirt  Avith." 

"Well,  then,  where  am  I  to  find  this  girl  ?" 

"  What's  the  matter  with — me?" 

"With  you?" 

"  Yes!  Perhaps  I  am  not  good  looking  enough?" 

"  You  are  good  looking  enough,"  replied  Mr.  Morpeth, 
recovering  himself,  "for  anything — "  and  he  threw  a  con- 
vincing emphasis  into  the  last  word  as  he  took  what  he 
called  his  first  real  inspection  of  his  adored  one's  junior — 
"  but  aren't  you  a  trifle — young  ?  " 

"  How  old  do  you  suppose  I  am  ?     Eighteen  years  old." 

"Eighteen  years  old!"  said  the  young  man.  "The 
deuce !  Well,  what's  your  plan  of  campaign?  I  am  to  dis- 
cover you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  calmly,  "  and  to  flirt  with  me 
like  fun." 

' '  And  may  I  ask  what  attitude  you  are  to  take  when  you 
are — discovered  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  am  going  to  dangle  you!  " 

"To  dangle  me?" 

"  As  a  conquest,  don't  you  know.  Let  you  hang  around 
and  laugh  at  you." 

"Oh,  indeed! 


It  is  in  the  solitude,  which  we  disdainfully  abandon,  that  the  supreme 
artist  works  and  produces  his  most  adorable  master-pieces.— Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  303 

' '  Tliere,  don't  be  wounded  in  your  masculine  pride.  You 
miglit  as  well  face  the  situation.  You  don't  think  tliat 
Pauline  is  in  love  with  you,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No!  "  groaned  the  young  man. 

"  But  you've  got  a  lot  of  money.  Mr.  Brown  has  got 
lots  more.  You're  eager.  Brown  is  coy.  That's  the  rea- 
son that  Brown  is  in  the  boat  and  you  are  on  the  cold,  cold 
sliore,  talking  to  little  sister.  Now  if  little  sister  jumps  at 
you,  why,  she's  simjjly  taking  big  sister's  leavings;  it's  all  in 
the  family,  anyway,  and  there's  no  jealousy,  and  Pauline 
can  devote  her  whole  mind  to  Brown.  There,  don't  look  so 
limjx  You  men  are  so  silly.  Now,  after  you've  asked  me 
to  marry  you — " 

"Oh,  I'm  to  ask  you  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  You  needn't  look  frightened,  I  won't  ac- 
cept you.  But  you  go  around  like  a  wet  cat,  and  mope, 
and  hang  on  worse  than  over.  Then  big  sister  will  see  that 
slie  can't  afford  to  take  that  sort  of  thing  from  little  sister, 
and  then  there's  your  chance." 

"Oh,  there's  my  ohance,  is  it  ?  " 

"There's  your  only  chance,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  with  de- 
cision. 

Mr.  Morpeth  meditated.  He  looked  at  the  lake,  where 
there  was  no  longer  sign  or  sound  of  the  canoe,  and  lie 
looked  at  Miss '  Flossy,  who  sat,  calm  and  careless,  on  the 
string-piece  of  the  dock. 

"  I  don't  know  how  feasible,"  he  began. 

"  It's  feasible,"  said  Miss  Flossy.  "  Of  course,  Pauline 
will  write  to  mamma,  and  mamma  will  write  and  scohl  me. 
But  she's  got  to  stay  in  New  York,  and  nurse  papa's  gout; 
and  the  Miss  Redwingtons  are  all  the  chaperones  we've  got 
+ 

In  an  ascending  movement  of  the  arm  the  hand  falls  from  the  rcrM; 
uhen  the  arm  descends,  the  hand  points  upw'ard.— Delsarte. 


364        DELS  A  E  TE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

up  here,  and  they  don't  amount  to  anything,  so  I  don't 
care.  Mr.  Morpeth,  I'm  two  years  behind  the  time-table, 
and  I've  got  to  make  for  liberty  or  die.  And  besides,"  she 
added,  ' '  if  you  are  nice,  it  needn't  be  such  an  awful 
trouble." 

Mr.  Morpeth  laughed. 

"  I'll  try  to  make  it  as  little  of  a  bore  as  possible,"  he  said, 
extending  his  hand.     The  girl  didn't  take  it. 

"Don't  make  any  mistake,"  she  cautioned  him,  search- 
ing his  face  with  her  eyes;  "this  isn't  to  be  any  little-girl 
affair.  Little  sister  doesn't  want  any  kind,  elegant,  super- 
cilious encouragement  from  big  sister's  young  man.  It's 
got  to  be  a  real  flirtation,  devotion  no  end  to  it,  and  you've 
got  to  keep  your  end  Avay,  way,  way  up ! " 

The  young  man  smiled. 

"  I'll  keep  my  end  u]^,"  he  said;  "but  are  you  certain 
that  you  can  keep  your's  up  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  so!  Pauline  will  raise  an  a^vful  row;  but 
if  she  goes  too  far,  I'll  tell  my  age,  and  hers  too." 

Mr.  Morpeth  looked  in  Miss  Flossy's  calm  face.  Then 
he  extended  his  hand  once  more. 

"  It's  a  bargain,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  he  said. 

This  time  a  small  and  soft  hand  met  his  with  a  firm  and 

friendly  pressure. 

"  And  I'll  refuse  you,"  said  Miss  Flossy. 

********* 

Within  a  few  weeks,  Mr.  Morpeth  found  himself  en- 
tangled in  a  flirtation  such  as  he  never  dreamed  of.  Miss 
Flossy's  scheme  had  succeeded  only  too  brilliantly.  The 
whole  hotel  was  talking  about  the  outrageous  behavior  of 

4. . . _ 


Pass  stuMenhj  from  one  great  emotion  to  another.    All  great  a<:tors  do. 
-Delsarte. 


/ 


DELS  A  R  TE  RECITA  TION  B  0  OK.  305 

"  that  little  Belton  girl  "  and  Mr.  Morpeth,  who  certainly 
ought  to  know  better, 

Mr.  Morpeth  had  carried  out  all  his  instructions.  Be- 
fore the  week  was  out,  he  found  himself  giving  the  most 
life-like  imitation  of  an  infatuated  lover  that  ever  delighted 
old  gossips  of  a  summer  resort.  And  yet  he  had  done  only 
what  Flossy  told  him  to  do.  He  got  his  first  lesson  just 
about  the  time  that  Flossy,  in  the  privacy  of  their  apart- 
ment, informed  her  elder  sister  that  if  she.  Flossy,  found 
Mr.  Morpeth's  society  agreeable,  it  was  nobody's  concern 
but  her  own,  and  that  she  was  prepared  to  make  some  in- 
teresting additions  to  tlie  census  statistics  if  anybody 
thought  different.     The  lesson  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,"  that  it  wouldn't  be  a  bit  of 
a  bad  idea  to  telegraph  to  New  York  for  some  nice  candy 
and  humbly  present  it  for  my  acceptance." 

lie  telegraphed  to  New  York  and  received,  in  the  course 
of  four  or  five  days,  certain  marvels  of  sweets  in  a  miracle 
of  an  upholstered  box.  The  next  day  he  found  her  on  the 
veranda  flinging  the  bonbons  on  the  lawn  for  the  children 
to  scramble  for. 

"  Awfully  nice  of  you  to  send  me  tliese  things,"  she  said, 
languidly,  but  loud  enough  for  the  men  around  her  to 
hear,  for  she  had  men  around  her  already;  "but  I  never 
eat  sweets,  you  know.  Here,  you  little  mite  in  the  blue 
sash,  don't  you  want  this  pretty  box  to  put  your  doll's 
clothes  in  ?  " 

And  Maillard's  finest  bonbonniere  went  to  a  yellow- 
haired  brat  of  three.  But  this  was  the  slightest  and  light- 
est of  her  caprices. 

And  did  such  conduct  pass  unchallenged  ?    No.     Paul- 


Notice  the  different  waj/s  in  which  peoiAc  scold.    The  schoolmaster  moves 
his  head  from  ahore  downxeard ;  the  boy  threatens  back,  tossino  his  head 
upward.— Dkij^arte. 
^ . 


366  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

ine  scolded,  raged,  and  raved.  81ie  wrote  to  mamma. 
Mamma  wrote  back  that  she  could  not  leave  papa.  His 
gout  grew  worse.  Pauline  scolded ;  the  flirtation  went  on ; 
and  the  people  at  the  big  hotel  enjoyed  it  immensely.  And 
there  was  more  to  come.  Four  weeks  had  passed.  Mr. 
Morpeth  was  hardly  on  speaking  terms  with  the  elder  Miss 
Belton ;  and  with  the  younger  Miss  Belton  he  was  on  terms 
which  the  hotel  gossips  characterized  as  "  simply  scandal- 
ous." Brown  glared  at  him  when  they  met,  and  he  glared 
at  Brown.  Brown  was  having  a  hard  time  of  it.  Miss 
Belton  the  elder  was  not  pleasant  of  temper  in  those  trying 
days. 

"And  now,"  said  Miss  Flossy  to  Mr.  Morpeth,  "it's 
time  you  proposed  to  me,  Muffets." 

They  were  sitting  on  the  hotel  veranda,  in  the  evening 
darkness.  No  one  was  near  them,  except  an  old  lady  in  a 
Shaker  chair. 

"There  is  Mrs.  Melby.  She's  pretending  to  be  asleep 
but  she  isn't.  She's  just  waiting  for  us.  Now  walk  me 
up  and  down  and  ask  me  to  marry  you  so  that  she  can  hear 
you.  It'll  be  all  over  the  hotel  inside  of  an  hour.  Paul- 
ine will  just  rage." 

With  this  pleasant  prospectus  before  him,  Mr.  Morpeth 
marched  Miss  Flossy  Belton  up  and  down  the  long  veranda. 
He  had  passed  Mrs.  Melby  three  times  before  he  was  able 
to  say,  in  a  choking  voice : 
"  Flossy,  I— I— I  love  you!" 

Flossy's  voice  was  not  uncertain  nor  choking.  It  rang  out 
clear  and  silvery  in  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  of  course  you  do,  Muffets,  and  I  wish  you  didn't. 
That's  what  makes  you  so  stupid  all  the  time." 


^ 


-+ 


Lower  the  voice  to  fix  attention.— Delsarte. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  367 

"But — "  said  Mr.  Morpeth,  vaguely;  "  but  I — " 

"  But,  you  silly  boy,"  returned  Miss  Flossy;  and  she 
added  in  a  swift  aside :  ' '  You  haven't  asked  me  to  marry  you  ! " 

"W — w — w — will  you  be  my  wife?"  stammered  Mr. 
Morpeth. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  "  I  will  not.  You  are  too  utterly 
ridiculous.  The  idea  of  it !  No,  Muffets,  you  are  charm- 
ing in  your  present  capacity;  but  you  are  not  to  be  consid- 
ered seriously." 

They  strolled  on  into  the  gloom. 

"  That's  the  first  time,"  he  said,  with  a  feeling  of  having 
only  the  ghost  of  a  breath  left  in  his  lungs,  "  that's  the  first 
time  I  ever  asked  a  woman  to  marry  me." 

"  I  should  think  so,  from  the  way  you  said  it.  And  you 
were  beautifully  rejected,  weren't  you.  Now  look  at  Mrs. 
Melby,  will  you.      She's  scudding  off  to  spread  the  news." 

And  before  Mr.  Morpeth  went  to  bed,  he  was  aware  of 

the  fact  that  every  man  and  woman  in  the  hotel  knew  that 

he  had  "  proposed  and  been  beautifully  rejected." 

********* 

Two  sulky  men  and  one  sulky  woman  and  one  radiant 
girl  started  out  in  two  canoes,  reached  certain  fishing 
grounds  and  began  to  cast  for  trout. 

"You  have  done  everything  I  have  wanted  you  to  do," 
said  Flossy;  "but  yon  have  not  saved  my  life  yet,  and  I 
am  going  to  give  you  a  chance.'.' 

Before  he  knew  what  had  happened,  Morpeth  was  swim- 
ming toward  the  shore,  holding  Flossy's  arm  and  fighting 
for  life  in  the  icy  waters  of  a  Maine  lake.  He  struggled  up 
on  shore  with  her,  and  when  he  got  breath  enough,  he 
burst  out : 


Tlic  stronger  titc  imotiou,  the  higher  the  shoulders  should  he  raided.— 
Delsarte. 


368  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?    It  was  wicked!  " 

"There,"  she  said,  as  she  reclined  composedly  in  his 
arms,  "  that  will  do.     I  don'i  want  to  be  scolded." 

At  five  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Morpeth  presented 
himself  at  the  door  of  the  parlor  attached  to  the  apartments 
of  the  Belton  sisters.  Miss  Belton  senior  was  just  coming 
out  of  the  room.  She  received  his  inquiries  after  her  sis- 
ter's health  with  a  white  face  and  a  quivering  lip. 

"  I  should  think, Mr.  Morpeth,"  she  began,"  that  you  had 
gone  far  enough  in  playing  with  the  feelings  of  a  m-m- 
mere  child,  and — that — oh,  I  have  no  words  to  express  my 
contempt  for  you ! " 

And  in  a  most  unladylike  rage  Miss  Pauline  swept  down 
the  corridor.  She  had  left  the  door  ajar  behind  her. 
Morpeth  heard  a  voice,  weak  but  cheery,  addressing  him 
from  the  far  end  of  the  parlor. 

"  You've  got  her,"  it  said.  "  She's  crazy  mad.  She'll 
make  up  to  you  to-night,  see  if  she  doesn't. " 

Mr.  Morpeth  looked  up  and  down  the  long  corridor.  It 
was  emjjty.  He  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered.  Flossy 
was  lying  on  the  sofa,  pale  but  bright-eyed. 

"You  can  get  her  now,"  she  whisiDered,  as  he  knelt  be- 
side her. 

"Flossy,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  I  love  you?  Oh, 
Flossy,  is  it  possible  that  you  don't  understand  ?" 

Flossy  stretched  out  two  weak  arms  and  put  them  around 
Mr.  Morpeth's  neck. 

"Why  have  I  had  you  in  training  all  summer  ?"  said 
she.     "  Did  you  think  it  was  for  Pauline  ?  " 


t" 

— 



-+ 

Vitality 
Delsarte. 

fe 

expressed 

by 

raising 

the 

outer 

part 

of 

the 

eyebrows. 

— 

+- 

— 



*;* 

DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  369 

THE  WAY  TO  ARCADY. 


H.    C.     BUNNEH. 


[Hy  permission  of  tlie  author] 

/^H,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 
^■^^     To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  wliat's  the  way  to  Arcady, 
Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry? 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat. 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  j'ou  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  way-worn  russet  shoon? 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  moutli  hungry-wide. 
I'll  br'm  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  1(^11  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  bouiul  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 

Anil  \\hore  away  lies  Arcady, 
And  long  yet  may  the  journev  be? 


370  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

k\\,  that  (quoth  he)  I  do  not  know — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours. 
I've  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  now  where  it  may  be; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  can  not  go  wrong, 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing? 

I  was  wont  to  sing  once  on  a  time — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'Tis  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he). 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody? 

What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he) — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise — 
That  love  must  kiss  that  mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady? 

No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there; 

But  beggared  love  may  go  all  bare — 

No  wisdom  won  with  weariness ; 

But  love  goes  in  with  folly's  dress — 

No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win; 

But  only  Love  may  lead  love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  to  me,  through  all  my  days 
Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 

And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise; 
But  love,  ah,  love !  I  have  it  not. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  371 

There  was  a  time,  when  time  was  new — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue; 

But  love — I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold. 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  love,  ah,  love!  and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way's  for  love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  love  have  }ou  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady? 

Ah.  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare; 

My  true  companion's  memory, 
Witli  love  he  fills  the  spring-time  air; 

With  love  he  clothes  the  winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My  song  goes  straiglit  to  one  who  stands-^ 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  tiie  sound — 

To  lead  me  to  the  spring-green  lands. 

To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 
The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 


372  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

THE  SERVANT  QUESTION. 

Stanley  Schell. 


Scene:  Intelligence  Office,  Mrs.  Anderson's,  Lexington 
Avenue. 

[Enter  hurriedly  Mrs.  Fitzhugh-M orris  looking  -flushed  and 
nervous.  Starts  across  stage  to  centre  where  Mrs.  Anderson 
is  supposed  to  be  sitting  at  desk;  halts  abruptly  on  seeing 
an  acquaintance,  and  smiles  half-heartedly;  puts  out  hand 
for  fashionable  shake.] 

1\ /FY  dear  Mrs.  Nichols-Delancy,  howdy? 

[High-hand  shake;  face  brightens;   sinks  into  chair.] 

A  cook?  Me  too.  A  whole  year?  Can  it  be  possible? 
I  have  felt  myself  lucky  when  mine  stayed  six  months. 
Talk  about  your  down-trodden  poor!  It's  the  down- 
trodden rich  who  need  all  the  sympathy.  You  should 
have  seen  my  kitchen  this  morning.  Have  you  secured 
one?    That  one  over  there?    Oh,  how  could  you! 

I — I — really,  I — could  never  eat  the  things  she  cooked. 
Her  face? — ugh! — Have  you  a  good  clock  in  your  kitchen? 
Eh-heh?  [Nod  head  and  smile.]  You'd  better  turn  its  face 
to  the  wall.  If  your  clock  once  sees  her  it  will  never  go 
again.     [Lean  back  and  laugh  until  tears  seem  to  come.] 

You  have  to  get  that  kind?  Your  husband  a  sad  flirt? 
Really?  Well,  I'd  give  him  something  better  to  ffirt  with. 
Wouldn't  do?  tut,  tut.  Try  it  once.  He  won't  spend  so 
much  time  at  his  club,  if  you  do.  Yes,  I've  tried  it,  and  it 
pays.  Men  are  such  simpletons.  Always  caught  by  a  prettj?- 
face.  It  pays  to  have  lots  of  pretty  faces  around  you. 
Don't  think  so?  You  funny  child.  Well,  take  her  along 
quick.  I'm  glad  she's  not  mine.  Good-b3'e.  Come 
soon  and  see  me.    Ah,  yes,  do!    You  have  no  little  ones 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  373 

to  bother  you.  Thanks,  awfully,  I  shall  expect  you. 
Good-bye.  [Shake  hands  with  siveet  smile.  Turn  to 
Mrs.  Andei'son;  look  at  watch,  begin  to  act  anxious.  Look 
bright  suddenly  as  if  Mrs.  Anderson  had  discovered  you. 
Move  toward  Mrs.  Anderson.] 

Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Anderson.  No,  another  cook. 
[Nod  head.]  That  last  girl !  You  don't  remember?  Why, 
yes  you  do.  I  got  her  here  only  last  week  and  }'ou  said 
she  was  a  jewel — a  jewel!  [/mlignantly.]  I  remember 
your  very  words.  Yes,  I  do.  And  she  gets  drunk.  Yes, 
drunk  every  night.  Astonished?  You  knew  as  well  as 
could  be  she  was  that  sort  of  girl,  for  Mrs.  Chauncey  says 
she  sent  her  away  the  week  before  I  got  her  and — do  I 
know  Mrs.  Chauncey?  I  think  I  do,  for  she's  my  husband's 
sister.  Ah — you  tlo  remember  Katie  now?  Thought 
you  would.  And  she  had  a  book  on  the  "Rights 
of  Servants."  She  started  reading  it  on  the  train  going 
out.  Asked  me  if  she  would  have  a  brass  bedsteatl  to 
sleep  in,  lace  curtains  to  her  windows,  a  Persian  rug, 
gas  to  read  with  and  a  parlor  for  company. 

By  the  time  we  reached  New  llochelle  she  seemed  all 
wrought  up  and  that  night  she  began  to  show  herself. 
Told  me  she  was  as  good  as  I,  if  she  did  cook,  and  that 
she'd  have  manj^  more  privileges  if  she  stayed.  It  was 
awful.  [Begin  to  look  for  handkerchief  to  wipe  away  tcan^.] 
Why,  I've  lost,  yes,  I've  lost  my  handkerchief — the  one 
Charley  gave  me  when  we  were  married.  [Fuss  all  around, 
looking  on  floor,  chairs,  etc.,  as  if  in  hopes  of  finding  it.] 
Real  lace — Point  [looks  under  chair]  d'esprit — Brussels. 
[Act  as  if  thinking.]  Let  me  sec,  I  had  it  on  the  train, 
and  in  the  car,  for  I  took  it  out  to  tlust  my  face  when  I 
saw  Mrs.  Jordan  looking  at  me;  and  I  had  it  in  my  hand 
when  I  went  into  Madam  Recamier's.  I  distinctly  remem- 
ber laying  it  on  the  counter.      Ditl  1  pick  it  up?     Yes,  no, 


374  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

I  must  have  left  it  there.  [Sorrowfully.]  Oh,  I  can't  afford 
to  lose  it.  Have  you  a  'phone?  So  glad.  But  send  me 
in  a  girl  quick.  [Go  L.,  ring  up,  then  say]  2 — 2 — 3 — 6 — 
Nineteenth,  please. — Yes,  2 — 2 — 3 — 6 — Nineteenth  in  an 
awful  hurry.  [Hold  receiver  to  ear  and  converse  with  Mrs. 
Anderson.]  Be  sure  and  tell  her  about  the  country.  No, 
I  know,  but  they  always  say  anything  outside  of  New 
York  is  country.  Yes,  strong  and  good-looking.  [Turn 
to  'phone.]  Is  this  2— 2— 3— 6— Nineteenth?  No?  Please 
hang  up.  [Shake  hdl  ringer.]  Central,  Central,  please 
give  me  2 — 2 — 3 — 6 — Nineteenth.  No,  you  didn't.  It 
was  wrong.  Yes,  I  told  her  to  hang  up.  [Turn  toward 
Mrs.  Anderson,  ivho  has  entered  with  a  girl.  Look  at 
servant  and  begin  to  open  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  when  servant 
interrupts.] 

Yes,  I  wish  a  girl  to  do  cooking.  Plain  cooking.  My 
husband,  his  mother,  myself  and  five  children.  That's 
enough?  Why,  you  surely  don't  object  to  children? 
No?  Old  lady?  Why,  she's  not  old.  She  always  goes 
away  every  summer.  Place  wouldn't  suit  you?  Oh, 
just  wait  a  moment,  please.  [Turn  to  'phone.]  Is  this 
2— 2— 3— 6— Nineteenth?  Is  it  Madam  Recamier's?  I'm 
so  glad.  Will  you  ask  Madam  to  come  to  the  'phone? 
Yes,  please.  [Turn  to  speak  to  servant  who  has  gone  out. 
Look  surprised  to  find  her  gone.] 

Well,  I  never, — she  didn't  even  have  the  politeness 
to  wait  a  second.  There  you  are,  Mrs.  Anderson,  what 
shall  I  do?  It's  my  mother-in-law  this  time.  I'm  glad 
for  once  it's  not  the  children.  [Turti  to  'phone.]  Is  this 
Madam  Recamier?  Yes?  Mrs.  Fitzhugh-Morris.  Fitz- 
hugh-Morris — Fitzhugh — Yes.  Hold  the  'phone  a  moment, 
please.  [Turn  to  Mrs.  A7iderson.]  You  must  find  one — 
I  want  to  catch  that  2:30  train  home.  [Tur7i  to  'phone 
o.gain.]     No,   I\Iadam,   I   was   talking  to  some   one  else. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  375 

Pardon  me  a  moment  [turns  to  Mrs.  Anderson].  You 
must,  to  take  the  place  of  that  awful  Katie.  Do  hum'. 
My  husband  brings  a  friend  to  dinner,  and  I  must  have 
one.  [Turn  to  'phone.]  Madam,  hello.  You  remember 
I  was  in  your  shop  tiiis  morning.  You  don't?  Why,  yes, 
near  the  window — bleached — yes,  roots  touched  up. 
Yes,  blonde.  That's  right.  Well,  I  put  my  handkerchief 
on  the  counter — just  a  bit  of  lace — left  it  there — yes 
I'll  wait.  [Turn  toward  new  girl.]  Good  afternoon.  Ever 
lived  out  before?  General  housework?  Long  in  last 
place?  Two  weeks?  Didn't  dress  the  ducks  to  suit 
the  lady?  Dressed  them  in  clothes?  Ha  ha,  ha  ha.  I 
beg  your  pardon,  but  I  really  couldn't  help  it — dressed 
the  ducks  in  clothes?  Did  she  dismiss  vou  for  that? 
No?  Didn't  like  the  way  you  aired  the  baby?  How? 
You  aired  it  good  out  of  the  window?  Shook  it?  Like 
the  bedclothes?  Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear!  I  feel  as  though 
I'll  die.  [Hold  hand  over  heart  and  laugh  heartily. 
Dressed  ducks  in  clothes  and  shook  baby  out  of  window 
to  air  it — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha — no,  I  couldn't  take  you  under 
any  circumstances — Sorr3^  [Turn  to  'phone.]  Waiting, 
Central,  yes. 

[Turn  and  laugh  heartily.]  Oh,  dear,  I  must  tell  that 
to  Charley.     [Bow  slowly  off  R.] 

Did  Mrs.  Anderson  send  you  to  mo?  You  wisli  a  place 
as  cook?  Suburbs?  Oh,  no,  just  about  tiiirtoon  miles 
out.  Oh,  no,  it's  more;  I  wouldn't  live  out  an  unlucky 
number  of  miles  either.  Ten  minutes  by  train.  It's 
lovely — when  you  get  there.  Can  see  the  boats  go  up 
and  down  Long  Island  Sound.  Lovely  all  the  time. 
Six  dollars  •  a  week.  Assist  laundress  on  Mondays.  A 
waitress  anil  an  upstairs  girl.  Yes,  gas  in  kitchen.  No, 
lamps  for  girls'  room.  One  afternoon  every  other  Thurs- 
day, and  one  afternoon  every  other  Sunday.    Evenings? 


376  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

I  never  give  any  of  them  out.  I  often  have  company 
and  need  refresliments,  etc.  Not  go?  Oh,  I  wish  you 
would;  I  hke  you,  and  think  we  would  get  along.  No? 
Please  try.  You  won't?  {Watch  her  go.  Stand  des- 
poyulent;  turn  to  ''phone.]  Yes,  it  would  have  seemed  a 
long  time,  onl}'  I've  been  busy.  Find  it?  Thank  heaven. 
No,  I  love  it  because  my  husband  gave  it  to  me  when 
we  were  married.  Yes,  I  am  sentimental — just  a  httle. 
[Laugh  a  little  in  'phone.]  Send  it  here?  That's  so  kind 
of  you.  No.  79  Lexington.  Thank  you,  so  much.  Good- 
bye.    {Hang  up  receiver,  turn  to  girl  waiting  off  L.] 

Place  as  cook?  {Smile  a  sickly  smile.]  Yes,  five,  but 
they're  all  small.  You  won't  waste  my — [Watch  girl  go. 
Sigh  deeply,  drop  into  a  chair  and  look  round  as  if  dis- 
tracted.] 

[Suddenly  look  up  and  off  front,  boic] 

Good  afternoon.  Yes.  Can  you  cook?  At  Mrs.  Grady's, 
on  Forty-seventh  Street?  Away  now?  Oh,  very  well, 
I  can  look  that  up  later.  Six  dollars  a  week.  Yes,  assist 
laundress  on  Mondays.  Husband,  mother-in-law — five 
children.  Like  children?  I'm  so  glad.  What  street?  Oh, 
I  live  just  a  little  way  out  of  city.  About  thir — fourteen 
miles  and  ten  minutes'  walk  from  station.  Lovely.  You 
like  the  country?  That's  just  lovely.  Well,  then  consider 
yourself  engaged.  Not  so  fast?  Have  I  a  dog?  Oh, 
yes,  two  of  them — Little  Fido,  who  lives  in  the  house; 
and  Rolfe,  a  great  Dane,  who  lives  out  of  doors.  You 
wouldn't  work  in  a  place  where  a  dog  is  kept  in  the  house? 
Why,  he  never  goes  into  the  kitchen.  No  difference? 
You  wouldn't  go?  Oh — please  change  your  mind.  Please 
do.  Fido  is  a  lovely  dog,  and  never  gives — you  won't 
go  under  any — You  won't 

{Watch  girl  go.  Sit  and  sigh.  Look  up  a  second,  then 
down.     Look  at  watch,  spring  to  feet.] 


EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 
By    D.    Maclise. 


4jr-^^ci?= 


'As'ain  I  caught  mv  father's  voice. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  377 

I  must  hurry.  But  I  can't  go  without  a  cook.  We 
shall  have  to  go  supperless  to  bed — and  the  baby — how 
the  little  darling  must  miss  me. 

[Look  up  suddenly;  let  facelight  up  with  a  happy,  relieved 
smile. \ 

Are  you  looking  for  a  place?  Never  went  out  to  cook 
before?  Brought  up  on  a  farm?  Been  sick?  So  sorry. 
Want  to  try  such  work  until  you  get  stronger?  In  the 
country?  Glad?  Yes?  So  am  I.  "Six  dollars  a  week 
and  two  afternoons  out  a  month.  Five  children.  The 
more  the  merrier?  (3h,  I  could  kiss  you.  You  don't 
mind  dogs?  Love  them?  Glail  of  the  change  from 
city  life  and  work?  Will  come  at  once?  Please  say 
yes  {look  at  watch].  Do.  We  have  just  ten  minutes  to 
make  our  train.  Your  trimk?  Leave  that  until  to-mor- 
row. My  husband  will  get  it  for  you.  What's  that? 
You'll  go  now.  Oh,  I'm  so  happy.  You  like  me?  Then 
we'll  get  along  together.  Come  along;  we'll  have  to 
run  for  the  train.     [Exit.] 


IN  BOIIEMI.A. 


John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 


T'D  rather  live  in  Bohomia  than  in  any  other  land; 

For  only  there  arc  tlio  values  true, 
And  the  laurels  gathered  in  all  men's  view. 
The  prizes  of  tralhc  and  state  are  won 
By  shrewdness  of  force  or  by  deeds  undone; 
But  fame  is  sweeter  without  the  feud, 
And  the  wise  of  Bohemia  are  never  shrcwtl. 

Here  pilgrims  stream  with  a  faith  sublime 
From  every  class  and  clime  and  time, 


378  DELS  ARTE   RECITATION   BOOK. 

Aspiring  only  to  be  enrolled 

With  the  names  that  are  writ  in  the  book  of  gold; 

And  each  one  bears  in  mind  or  hand 

A  palm  of  that  dear  Bohemian  land. 

The  scholar  first,  with  his  book;    a  youth 
Aflame  with  the  glory  of  harvested  truth; 
A  girl  wuth  a  picture,  a  man  with  a  play, 
A  boy  with  a  wolf  he  has  modeled  in  clay; 
A  smith  with  a  marvelous  hilt  and  sword, 
A  player,  a  king,  a  plowman,  a  lord— 
And  the  player  is  king  when  the  door  is  past, 
The  plowman  is  crowned,  and  the  lord  is  last! 

I'd  rather  fail  in  Bohemia,  than  win  in  another  land; 

There  are  no  titles  inherited  there, 

No  hoard  of  hope  for  the  brainless  heir; 

No  guilded  dullard  native  born 

To  stare  at  his  fellow  with  leaden  scorn, 

Bohemia  has  none  but  adopted  sons. 

Its  limits,  where  fancy's  bright  stream  runs; 

Its  honors,  not  garnered  for  thrift  or  trade, 

But  for  beauty  and  truth  men's  souls  have  made. 

To  the  empty  hearts  in  a  jeweled  breast 
There  is  value,  maybe,  in  a  purchased  crest  j 
But  the  thirsty  of  souls  soon  learn  to  know 
The  moistureless  froth  of  the  social  show: 
The  vulgar  sham  of  the  pompous  feast. 
Where  the  heaviest  purse  is  the  highest  priest; 
The  organized  charity,  scrimped  and  iced, 
In  the  name  of  a  cautious,  statistical  Christ; 
The  smile  restrained,  the  respectable  cant 
Where  a  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  in  want ; 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  'iVd 

Where  the  only  aim  is  to  keep  afloat, 

And  a  brother  may  drown  with  a  cry  in  his  tliroat. 

Oh,  I  long  for  the  glow  of  a  kindly  heart  antl  the  grasp 

of  a  friendly  hand ! 
And  I'd  rather  hve  in  Bohemia  than  in  any  other  land! 


DOROTHY'S  MUSTNTS. 


Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

"  T'lM  sick  of  'mustn'ts,'"  said  Dorothy  D; 

"Sick  of  'mustn'ts'  as  I  can  be. 
From  early  morn  till  the  close  of  day, 
I  hear  a  'mustn't'  and  never  a  'may.' 
It's  'You  mustn't  lie  there  like  a  sleepy  head;' 
And  'You  mustn't  sit  up  when  it's  time  for  bed;' 
'You  mustn't  cry  when  I  comb  your  curls;' 
'You  mustn't  play  with  those  noisy  girls;' 
'You  mustn't  be  silent  when  spoken  to;' 
'You  mustn't  chatter  as  parrots  do;' 
'You  mustn't  be  pert  and  you  mustn't  be  proud;' 
'You  mustn't  giggle  or  laugh  aloud;' 
'You  mustn't  rumple  your  nice  clean  dress;' 
'You  mustn't  nod  in  place  of  a  yes.' 

"So  all  day  long  the  'mustn'ts'  go, 

Till  I  dream  at  night  of  an  endless  row 

Of  goblin  'nuistn'ts,'  with  great  big  eyes 

That  stare  at  me  in  shocked  surprise — 

(^h!  I  hope  1  shall  live  to  see  the  day 

AMien  some  one  will  say  to  me,  'Dear,  you  may;' 

For  I'm  sick  of  'mustn'ts,'"  said  Dorothy  D; 

"Sick  of  'mustn'ts'  as  I  can  be." 


380  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

WHAT  WILLIAM  HENRY  DID. 


J.  L.  Harbour. 

"YA/HAT  William  Henry  would  do  next  was  a  problem 
that  kept  his  aunt,  Dorinda  Hatch,  in  a  state  of 
constant  unrest,  for,  as  she  expressed  it,  "What  William 
Henry  does  next  is  always  so  much  worse  than  what  he 
did  last  that  I  can't  be  prepared  for  it,  no  matter  what  it  is." 

She  had  often  been  heard  to  add,  "If  he  wasn't  the  only 
child  of  my  only  sister  and  she  dead  and  in  her  grave,  I'd 
pack  him  off  to  some  orphan  asylum,  where  he'd  be  likely 
to  get  the  discipline  I'm  not  able  to  give  him." 

There  was  nothing  mean  or  vicious  about  William  Henry; 
but  he  was  woefully  heedless,  and  had  a  surjDrising  capacity 
for  mischief,  although  only  ten  years  of  age  and  hardly 
as  large  as  the  average  boy  of  eight. 

One  day  in  May  Aunt  Dorinda  fell  to  worrying  because 
William  Henry  had  led  a  blameless  life  for  three  whole 
days. 

"When  William  Henry  doesn't  do  anything  upsetting 
for  three  whole  days  he's  either  going  to  come  down  with 
a  sick  spell  or  he's  going  to  do  something  extraordinary," 
she  said. 

The  day  was  rainy,  and  William  Henry  was  up  in  the 
attic,  examining  the  varied  contents  of  some  old  trunks. 
He  had  probed  to  the  bottom  of  a  small  red  chest  contain- 
ing nothing  but  old  papers  and  letters  and  books,  when  he 
picked  up  a  faded  yellow  pasteboard  card  about  six  or 
eight  inches  long  by  five  or  six  in  width.  On  the  card  in 
large  black  letters  was  printed: 


SMALL    POX    HERE. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  381 

On  the  back  of  this  gruesome  reUc  was  written  in  Aunt 
Dorinda's  angular  hand:  ''This  card  was  tacked  to  my 
Father's  front  door  from  Jan.  10th,  1845,  to  Apr.  IGth, 
1845  durin  whitch  time  my  father  and  two  of  my  ants  antl 
two  l)rothcrs  and  one  sister  iiad  smallpox.  One  ant  died 
but  all  the  otliers  got  well." 

William  Henry  took  the  card  to  the  one  cobwel>bed 
window  of  the  attic,  brushed  the  dust  from  it  with  his  sleeve 
and  slowly  spelled  out  the  words.  Then  he  buttoned  the 
card  under  his  jacket. 

"I'm  going  to  show  that  card  to  Jack  Hooper,"  he 
thought.  "  He  was  bragging  the  other  day  that  he  had  had 
two  uncles  die  of  yellow  fever,  and  he  acted  as  if  he  didn't 
believe  it  when  I  said  I'd  had  an  aunt  die  of  smallpox.  I'll 
show  him  if  I  didn't !  I  wish  I  could  find  somethmg  up  here 
to  prove  how  one-  of  my  great-uncles  was  blown  up  in  a 
boiler  explosion — he  acted  as  if  he  didn't  believe  that 
either." 

Unable  to  find  such  evidence,  and  the  sun  having  sud- 
denly shone  forth,  William  Henry  went  tlown-stairs,  where 
his  aunt  set  him  to  sweeping  the  rain  and  some  drifted 
cherry  l^lossoms  fioni  the  front  porch.  ?Ie  had  l)egun  to  per- 
form this  task  when  the  card  slipped  from  under  his  jacket 
to  the  floor  of  the  porch.  William  Henry  ])icked  it  up. 
punched  a  little  hole  in  it  and  hung  it  on  a  nail  driven 
into  a  pillar  of  the  porch,  on  which  his  aunt  daily  hung  the 
card  to  call  the  iceman. 

When  the  front  porch  was  swept,  the  side  porch  noodod 
William  Henry's  attention.  Just  as  he  had  finislied 
sweeping  it  Dan  Covel  came  running  up  to  him  and  rejiorted 
that  the  heavy  rains  had  caused  the  river  to  rise  like 
"  all  fury,"  so  that  there  was  the  delightful  prospect  of  an 
overflow  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town.  At  this  exciting 
news  William  Henrv  hiuried  awav  to  the  river  with  Dan. 


382  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

The  forgotten  smallpox  card  was  left  hanging  on  the 
post. 

An  hour  later  Aunt  Dorinda  was  seated  by  an  upper 
front  window  sewing,  when  she  saw  old  lady  Draper  come 
in  at  the  front  gate. 

"Dear  me!"  she  thought,  "I  hope  she  hasn't  come  to 
stay  all  day.  She's  deaf  as  a  post,  and  it  hoarses  me  all  up 
to  screech  to  her  the  way  I  have  to." 

But  when  she  went  down  to  the  front  door  to  admit  her 
visitor  she  was  amazed  to  see  the  old  lady  turn  on  the 
lower  step  of  the  porch  and  go  hurrying  toward  the  gate, 
screaming  in  affright: 

"Go  back,  go  back,  'Rindy  Hatch!  Don't  you  come 
nigh  me!  Oh,  my  land!  I'll  ketch  it,  sure  as  shootin'! 
Go  back!" 

"Well,  I'll  be  switched!  If  that  don't  beat  me!  I've 
heard  before  that  there  was  insanity  in  her  family.  It's 
saved  me  screaming  my  lungs  out,  anyhow!" 

She  had  hardly  taken  up  her  sewing  when  she  saw  a  man, 
unmistakably  an  agent  of  some  sort,  enter  the  gate. 

"I'll  make  short  shift  of  him.  I  don't  want  any  book, 
or  furniture  polish,  or  patent  nutmeg-grater,  or  soap,  or 
imperishable  lamp-wick,  or  nothing !     And  I'll  tell  him  so ! " 

But  just  as  she  opened  the  door  the  man  turned  and 
fled  so  precipitately  that  he  slipped  on  the  wet  boards  of 
the  walk  and  fell  headlong.  He  sprang  up  with  all  possible 
speed,  and  the  latch  of  the  gate  not  working  readily,  he 
jumped  over  the  fence  and  ran  down  the  road  without  a 
word. 

"Well,  upon  my  word!  I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  all 
agents  that  easy.     I  declare  if  the  fellow  isn't  running  still !" 

Half  an  hour  later  an  extremely  dirty  tramp  came 
shuffling  down  the  road  and  stopped  at  the  gate.  Aunt 
Dorinda   watched   liim   from   her   seat   by   the   window, 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  383 

intending  to  call  out  that  sho  had  nothing  for  him  as 
soon  as  he  was  near  enough  to  hear.  He  came  half  way 
up  the  walk,  but  when  she  raisetl  the  window  lie,  too, 
turned  and  fled  without  even  looking  back. 

"There  must  be  something  skeery  al)out  mc;  I'll  see.'' 
She  went  to  a  iniiror  in  the  room  and  looked  at  herself. 

"I  don't  see  but  what  I  look  as  I  always  look.  I  know 
I'm  rather  homely,  but  I  never  knew  that  I  was  homely 
enough  to  scare  a  tramp  out  of  his  senses." 

Soon  after  the  disappearance  of  the  tramp,  she  saw  Teddy 
Jaynes,  a  boy  of  thirteen,  come  up  the  road.  When  he 
reached  the  gate  he  began  to  scream  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  "S-a-a-a-y!   S-a-a-}^  there!   Mis'  H-a-a-tch!" 

Mrs.  Hatch  raised  the  window,  whereupon  Teddy 
threw  a  good-sized  stone  with  sucli  Aiolence  that  it  dented 
the  front  door  badly.  "There's  a  note  tied  to  the  stone," 
he  called  out. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  acting  so?  Come  here  and  tell 
me!" 

"Not  much  I  won't!  Ma  said  for  me  not  to  go  inside 
the  gate  or  I  might  ketch  it!  She  said  for  me  to  run  like 
lightning  soon  as  I'd  thrown  the  note,  and  I'm  going 
to!"    and  away  he  sped. 

"Another  lunatic  abroad,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch  grimly, 
as  she  went  down-stairs  to  get  the  note.  Smoothing  out 
the  crumpled  bit  of  paper,  she  read: 

"Dear  Mrs.  Hatch:  We  are  very  sorry  to  know  of  the 
dreadful  aOliction  that  has  been  visited  upon  you  and 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  do  anything  in  our  power,  if 
there  was  anything  we  could  do  at  such  a  time.  We 
are  extremely  anxious  to  know  who  has  it,  and  if  it  is 
Mr.  Hatch  will  you  please  hang  a  red  cloth  out  of  your 
"upper  south  window,  w-hich  we  can  see  plainly  from  our 
side  porch.     If  it  is  William  Henry  jilease  hang  out  a 


384  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

white  cloth,  and  if  it  is  your  dear  old  mother  hang  out 
both  a  white  and  a  red  cloth.  You  can't  tell  how  sorry 
we  are  for  you,  and  we  sincerely  hope  that  all  will  come 
out  well.  Mary  C.  Jaynes." 

"Well,  I'm  beat!  I've  no  more  idea  than  the  man  in 
the  moon  what  Mary  Jaynes  means !  I'd  like  to  see  myself 
hanging  out  red  and  white  rags  without  knowing  what 
I'm  hanging  them  out  for!  I  know  what  I'll  do!  I'll  go 
straight  down  to  the  Jaynes's  and  ask  them  wdiat  they 
mean,  that's  what  I'll  do!" 

A  few  moments  later  Mrs.  Hatch  went  down  the  road, 
holding  her  calico  skirts  well  up  out  of  the  mud.  She 
looked  anxious  and  irritated. 

Teddy  Jaynes  was  swinging  on  the  front  gate,  and 
when  he  saw  her  approach  he  sped  into  the  house.  The 
next  moment  half  a  dozen  frightened  Jaynes  faces  appeared 
at  the  front  window. 

Mrs.  Hatch  had  just  entered  the  gate  when  Mrs.  Jaynes 
raised  a  window  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty: 

"Please  don't  come  any  nigher,  Mrs.  Hatch!  If  there 
is  anything  we  can  do  for  you,  say  so,  and  w^e'll  do  it 
gladly,  but  don't  expose  us  all  by  coming  into  the  house!" 

"Nonsense!  I'm  coming  in  to  find  out  what  you  meant 
by  sending  me  that  silly  note!    I'm  going  to ^' 

She  started  toward  the  house,  when  not  only  the  window 
but  all  of  the  shades  were  pulled  down,  and  all  the  response 
she  got  to  her  knocking  on  the  door  came  from  Tilrs.  Jaynes, 
who  seemed  to  be  speaking  from  some  place  of  safety  and 
seclusion  up-stairs. 

"Go  away,  Mrs.  Hatch!  I  want  to  be  neighborly  and 
do  what's  right,  but  I  can't  and  won't  have  you  come 
into  the  house.     Please  go  away!" 

This  made  Mrs.  Hatch  so  indignant  that  she  said  hotly: 
"Well,  I'll  go,  Mary  Jaynes,  and  I'll  stay  gone,  and  I'll 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  385 

thank  you  never  to  darken  my  door  again!"     And  IMrs. 
Hatch  departed,  angrier  and  more  puzzled  than  Ijefore. 

8he  entered  her  own  domain  by  a  side  gate  and  door 
and  thus  failed  to  discover  the  smallpox  placard. 

She  had  been  at  home  about  half  an  hour  when  she 
saw  Miss  Nancy  Dart,  a  warm-hearted,  elderly  woman 
wlio  liv(>(l  in  the  village,  approaching  the  house.  She 
walked  boldly  to  the  door  and  rang  the  bell.  When 
Mrs.  Hatch  hurried  down,  the  somewhat  emotional  Nancy 
exclaimed : 

"I've  heard  about  it,  Mrs.  Hatch,  and  I've  come  right 
up  to  stay  with  3'ou  and  see  you  through  it.  You  know 
I'm  a  born  nurse,  and  I've  had  the  disease,  and  I  luuen't 
forgot  how  good  you  were  to  me  when  I  had  typhoid 
fever  five  years  ago.  I've  brought  things  enough  in  my 
bag  to  do  me  a  month  and  I'm  going  to  stay  and  help 
you  out,  and  don't  you  feel  so  dreadful  over  it  all.  Ever}'- 
body's  dreadful  sorry  for  you,  and  I  don't  think  that 
the  town  authorities  will  insist  on  any  of  you  being  carried 
to  the  pest-house,  for  you  live  so  far  out  and  kind  of 
isolated.  I  met  Jonas  Dyke,  one  of  the  selectmen,  on 
my  way  here,  an<l  he  said  he  didn't  think  you'd  need  to  go 
if  you  was  ))roperly  ([uarantined  here.     Now,  wiio'sgot  it?" 

"Got  what,  Nancy  Dart?" 

"I'd  say  'what'  with  a  smallpox  card  on  my  front 
porch,  Dorindy  Hatch!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say!   Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't 
know  that  tiiere  is  a  smallpox  card  on  your  front  porch 
post?" 
r>«Where?"    asked  Mrs.  Hatch,  faintly.     ^ 

She  stejiped  out  on  to  the  porcii,  and  when  Nancy 
pointed  to  the  card  Mrs.  Hatch  stared  long  at  it  before 
she  said: 


386  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"It's  some  of  William  Henry's  doings.  I  knew  some- 
thing awful  would  come  of  his  being  so  good  three  whole 
days." 

"And  you  haven't  any  smallpox  here?" 

"No  more  than  you  have." 

"  Well,  it's  all  over  town  that  you  have." 

Mrs.  Hatch  groaned  and  said  sternly:  "I'll  settle  with 
William  Henry!" 

The  fact  that  William  Henry  had  had  no  intention  of 
causing  so  much  trouble  did  not  save  him  from  his  aunt's 
wrath. 

"A  boy  like  you  never  gets  a  punishment  amiss,"  she 
said,  "and  I've  let  you  go  many  a  time  when  I  ought  to 
have  whipped  you.  So  just  take  off  your  jacket,  William 
Henry  Myers!" 

HOW  DEACON  TUBMAN  AND   PARSON 
WHITNEY  KEPT  NEW  YEAR'S. 


W.  H.  H.  Murray. 

"  TT  APPY  New  Year!"  exclaimed  Deacon  Tubman  as 
he  bounced  out  of  bed  on  a  bright  New  Year's 
morning.  "This  is  going  to  be  a  fine  daj^,  and  I  must 
see  what  I  can  do  to  make  some  one  happy.  There's 
Parson  Whitney  now;  guess  I'll  take  him  for  a  ride  and 
see  if  I  can  thaw  him  out  a  bit.  He's  sort  of  all  frozen 
up  latterly,  and  I  can  see  that  the  young  folks  are  afraid 
of  him,  and  the  church  too — and  that  won't  do — that 
won't  do.  Perhaps  I  can  get  him  to  go  and  see  the  young 
folks  at  their  fun.  It'll  do  him  good,  and  them  good, 
and  me  good,  and  everybody  good."  Saying  which  the 
deacon  hurried  through  his  work  and  out  to  harness  Jack 
into  the  worn,  old-fashioned  sleigh. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  387 

Now  Jack  was  a  horse  of  a  groat  deal  of  cliaraeter,  and 
had  a  history,  but  of  this,  none  in  that  section,  save  the 
deacon,  knew  a  word.  The  deacon's  son  liad  bought 
him  from  an  impecunious  horse  jockey  and  sent  him  as 
a  present  to  his  father. 

He  was  an  animal  of  most  unicjue  and  extraordinary 
appearance.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  quite  seventeen 
hands  in  height  and  long  in  proportion.  He  was  also 
the  reverse  of  shapely,  for  his  head  was  long  and  bony, 
and  his  hip  l)ones  protuberant;  his  tail  was  what  is  known 
among  horsemen  as  a  "rat-tail,"  being  but  scantily  covered 
with  hair,  and  his  neck  was  even  more  scantily  supplied 
with  a  mane,  while  in  color  he  could  easil}-  have  takrn 
the  premium  for  homeliness. 

A  huge,  bony  horse  he  was,  with  a  loose  shambling 
gait,  and  the  smart  village  chaps,  riding  along  in  their 
jaunty  turn-outs,  used  to  chaff  the  good  deacon  on  the 
character  of  his  steed  and  satirically  challenge  him  to  a 
brush. 

The  deacon  always  took  the  badinage  in  good  part, 
although  he  inwardly  said  more  than  once,  "If  I  ever  get 
a  good  chance,  when  there  ain't  too  many  around.  I'll 
let  Jack  out  on  them";  for  Dick  had  given  the  deacon 
a  hint  of  the  horse's  pedigree,  and  told  him  that  he  could 
knock  the  spots  out  of  thirty.  Such  was  the  horse,  then, 
that  the  deacon  had  ahead  of  him  and  the  old-fashioned 
sleigh  when  with  the  parson  alongside  he  struck  into  the 
principal  street  of  the  village. 

On  this  particular  day  the  sleighing  was  perfect,  and 
every  one  was  out.  The  deacon  reached  the  corner  of 
the  street  and  turned  just  at  the  point  where  the  course 
of  an  amateur  race-track  terminated,  and  at  the  jirecise 
moment  when  the  dozen  or  twenty  horses  that  had  come 
fl>ing  down  were  being  pulled  uj)  preparatory  to  returning 


388  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

at  a  slow  gait  to  the  customary  starting-point  at  the  head 
of  the  street  half  a  mile  away. 

The  old-fashioned  sleigh  was  quickly  surrounded  by  the 
light  fancy  cutters,  and  old  Jack  was  shambling  along  in 
the  midst  of  the  liigh-spirited  steeds. 

"Hillow,  Deacon/'  shouted  one  of  the  boys  who  was 
driving  a  trim-looking  bay,  "aren't  you  going  to  shake 
out  old  Shamble-heels  and  show  us  fellows  what  speed  is?" 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  will— I  don't  know  but  what 
I  will,  if  the  parson  don't  object  and  you  won't  start 
off  too  quick  to  begin  with;  for  this  is  New  Year's  day, 
and  a  httle  extra  fun  won't  hurt  any  one." 

"Do  it!  do  it!  we'll  hold  up  for  you,"  answered  a 
dozen  merry  ones.  "Do  it,  Deacon,  it'll  do  old  Shamble- 
heels  good  to  do  a  ten-mile-an-hour  gait  for  once  in  his 
life,  and  the  parson  needn't  fear  of  being  scandahzed 
by  any  speed  j'ou'll  get  out  of  him." 

Now  Jack  was  a  knowing  old  fellow  and  had  "scored" 
at  too  many  races  not  to  know  that  the  return  was  to  be 
taken  leisurely,  but  when  he  came  to  the  "turn"  his 
head  and  tail  came  up,  his  eyes  brightened,  and  -with  a 
playful  movement  of  liis  huge  body,  without  the  least 
hint  from  the  deacon,  he  swung  the  cumbersome  sleigh 
into  line  and  began  to  straighten  himself  for  the  "brush." 

Jack  needed  steadying  at  the  start,  but  the  deacon 
had  no  experience  with  the  "ribbons,"  and  was  utterly 
unskilled  in  the  matter  of  driving,  and  so  it  came  about 
that  Jack  was  so  confused  that  he  made  a  most  awkward 
effort  to  get  off,  and  liis  fl>ang  rivals  were  twenty  rods 
away  before  he  got  fairly  started.  But  at  last  he  got 
his  huge  body  in  a  straight  Une  and  squared  away  to  his 
work;  with  head  and  tail  up  he  went  off  at  so  slashing 
a  gait  that  it  fairly  took  the  deacon's  breath  away  and 
caused  the  crowd  that  had  l^een  hooting  him  to  roar  their 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK,  389 

applause,  while  the  parson  grabbed  the  edge  of  the  old 
sleigh  with  one  Imnd  and  the  rim  of  his  tall  silk  hat  with 
the  other,  > 

With  muzzle  lifted  well  up,  tail  erect,  one  ear  pricked 
forward  and  the  other  turned  sharply  back,  the  great 
horse  swept  grandly  along  at  a  pace  which  was  rapidly 
bringing  him  even  with  the  rear  line  of  the  flying  group. 

It  was  fortunate  for  the  deacon  and  the  parson  that 
cheers  such  as  "Good  Heavens!  see  the  deacon's  old 
horse!"  "Look  at  him!  look  at  him!"  "What  a  stride!" 
ran  ahead  of  them,  for  the  drivers  saw  them  coming,  or 
there  would  surely  have  been  more  than  one  collision, 
for  the  old  sleigh  was  of  such  size  and  strength,  the  deacon 
so  unskilled  at  the  reins,  and  Jack,  who  was  adding  to 
his  momentum  at  every  stride,  going  at  so  determined  a 
pace,  that  had  he  struck  the  rear  line  witli  no  gap  for 
him  to  go  through,  something  serious  would  surely  have 
happened.  As  it  was,  they  pulled  out  in  time  to  save 
themselves. 

The  deacon  had  l^ecome  somewhat  alarmed,  for  Jack 
was  going  at  a  nigh  to  thirty  clip— a  frightful  pace  for  an 
inexperienced  driver — so  he  began  to  put  a  good  strong 
pressure  on  the  bit,  not  doubting  that  Jack,  ordinarily 
the  easiest  horse  in  the  world  to  manage,  woukl  take 
the  hint  and  slow  up.  But  although  the  horse  took  the 
hint  it  was  exactly  in  the  opposite  manner  that  the  deacon 
intended  he  should,  for  he  interpreted  the  little  man's 
steady  pull  as  an  intimation  that  his  driver  was  getting 
over  his  flurry,  and  beginning  to  treat  him  as  a  horse 
ought  to  be  treated  in  a  race,  and  that  he  could  now 
go  ahead.  And  go  ahead  he  did.  Tlie  more  the  deacon 
pulled,  the  more  the  horse  felt  himself  steadied  and  assisted. 
The  deacon  began  to  cry  "Whoa,  Jack,  whoa,  old  boy, 
I  say!"   "That's  a  good  follow!"  but  the  horse  only  under- 


390  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

stood  this  as  so  many  signals  to  go  ahead.  So,  with  the 
memory  of  a  hundred  races  stirring  his  blood,  the  crowds 
cheering  him  to  the  echo,  the  steadying  pull,  the  encourag- 
ing cries  of  his  driver  in  his  ears,  his  only  rival,  the  pacer, 
whirling  along  a  few  rods  ahead  of  him,  the  monstrous 
animal  let  out  another  kick,  and  tore  along  after  the 
pacer  at  such  a  terrific  pace  that  within  the  distance  of  a 
dozen  lengths  he  lapped  upon  him,  and  the  two  were 
going  it  nose  and  nose. 

No  sooner  was  old  Jack  fairly  lapped,  and  the  contest 
seemed  doubtful,  than  the  spirit  of  old  Adam  himself 
entered  into  the  deacon  and  the  parson;  they  fairly  for- 
got themselves  and  entered  as  wildly  into  the  contest  as 
two  ungodly  jockeys. 

"Deacon  Tubman,  Deacon  Tubman,"  asked  the  parson, 
"do  you  think  the  pacer  will  beat  us?" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it!  not  if  I  can  help  it!"  yelled  the 
deacon  in  reply,  as  with  something  like  a  reinsman's 
skill  he  lifted  Jack  to  another  spirit.  "Go  it,  old  boy!" 
he  shouted,  "go  along  with  you,  I  say!" 

This  was  the  very  thing  and  the  only  tiling  that  the 
huge  horse  needed.  He  put  forth  his  collected  strength 
with  such  tremendous  energy  and  suddenness  that  the 
deacon,  who  had  risen  and  who  was  standing  erect  in  the 
sleigh,  fell  back  into  the  arms  of  the  parson,  wliile  the 
horse  rushed  over  the  line  amid  such  cheers  and  roars  of 
laughter  as  were  never  heard  in  that  village  before. 


"  I  wTote  an  article  on  cow's  milk  once  for  a  maga- 
zine." 

"Is  that  a  fact?" 

"  Yes,  and  would  you  believe  it,  when  it  appeared  in 
print  it  was  condensed!". 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  391 

WHEN  ANGRY,  COUNT  A  HUNDRED. 


E.  Cavazza. 


nPHE  dining-room  of  a  house  in  Fifth  Avomie. 

Personages:  Host,  hostess,  guests,  poUtely  engaged 
in  conversation — all  but  Mr.  Alfred  Ames  and  Miss  Eva 
Rosewarne,  who,  seated  side  by  side  at  the  table,  regard  in 
silence  their  respective  bouquets  on  the  tablecloth. 

Alfred  [slightly  embarrassed].  I  hope,  Miss  Rosewarne, 
that  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  until  1  entered  the 
house  I  had  no  idea  you  were  to  be  here.  Our  short-lived 
engagement  was  quite  unknown  to  any  one  but  ourselves, 
and  Mrs.  Le  Clerc,  kind  hostess  that  she  is,  supposes  she  Is 
doing  me  a  great  favor  by  giving  me  a  place  next  you.  I 
confess  that  when  I  read  your  name  I  felt  a  sudden  unrea- 
sonable sort  of  a  thrill,  but  I've  not  forgotten  that  a  fort- 
night ago  you  said  you  would  never  speak  to  me  again.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  talk  to  me,  but  may  I  beg  as  a  favor — not 
to  me — to  our  hostess,  that  you  will  appear  to  be  on  ordi- 
nary terms  of  acquaintance  with  me?  I'll  gladly  do  more 
than  my  share  of  the  conversation;  you  never  gave  me 
much  chance  at  that,  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  succeed.  P)y 
the  way,  I  once  heard  of  a  man  who  had  nothing  to  say  at 
a  dinner-party,  so  he  turned  to  his  neighbor  and  began  to 
count  with  expression.  You  are  angry  with  me,  but  you 
know  philosojihers  advise  one:  "^^'hcn  angry  count  one 
hundred."  Might  I  beg  you  to  count  your  hundred  aloud 
for  the  sake  of  our  hostess? 

[Eva  assents  irith  a  bend  of  Jier  golden  head.] 

Alfred.  Thank  you — if  I  may  presume  so  far.  \'m 
glad  I  never  vowed  not  to  speak  to  you  again.  It  seems 
to  me  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said,  and  as  I  expect  to 
sail  for  Europe  in  a  day  or  two,  to  be  gone — indefinitely — 


392  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

perhaps  like  any  other  condemned  man,  I  may  be  allowed 
a  few  last  words? 

Eva.     One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven. 

Alfred.  You  know  that  I  loved  you  with  my  whole 
heart — 

Eva  [with  haste].     Eight,  nine — 

Alfred.  And  now,  at  this  moment,  I  can  think  of  no 
reason  why  you  and  I  should  be  as  far  apart  as  if  the  Atlan- 
tic already  rolled  between  us. 

Eva  [-pensively^     Ten,  eleven,  twelve. 

Alfred.  You  are  still  angry  with  me,  but  I  shall  always 
be  grateful  to  you.  For  a  few  days  I  lived  in  Paradise,  and 
if  one  must  be  driven  out  of  Eden,  it  is  at  least  more  bear- 
able to  be  evicted  by  Eve — it  was  her  name  quite  some 
time  before  it  was  yours — than  to  be  driven  out  of  it  by 
the  serpent.     There  was  no  serpent  in  my  Eden. 

Eva    [cynically].     Thirteen,    fourteen,    fifteen,    sixteen. 

Alfred.  Ah,  you  are  right.  Or  course*  he  was  there, 
glittering  with — orders  of  merit.  Also,  he  waltzed  hke 
an  angel  of  light.  So  5^ou  said  that  night  at  the  Casino. 
But  if  you  preferred  Count  von  Waldberg  to  my  humble 
self,  you  might  at  least  have  said  so  frankly.  I  wouldn't 
have  stood  in  the  way  of  your  happiness. 

Eva  [reproachfully].  Seventeen,  eighteen,  nineteen, 
twenty. 

Alfred.  Mrs.  Le  Clerc  is  looking  at  us.  Say  some- 
tliing  kind  to  me — for  her  sake! 

Eva  [cheerfully].  Twenty-one.  twenty-two,  twenty- 
three,  twenty-four,  twenty-five,  twenty-six,  twenty-seven, 
twenty-eight ! 

Alfred.  A  thousand  thanks.  She  is  quite  satisfied 
that  we  are  enjoying  ourselves. 

Eva  [with  a  shade  of  coquetry].     Twenty-nine,  thirty? 

Alfred.     Oh,  immensely — that  is  to  say,  not  precisely. 


RESPONSE  TO  CALL  OF  MERCY. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  393 

However,  1  mean  to  improve  my  opportunity,  such  as 
it  is. 

Eva  [carclcssltj].  Thirty-one,  thirty-two,  thirty-three, 
thirty-four,  thirty-five,  thirty-six. 

Alfred.  I  think  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  ever  forget 
those  evenings  on  the  river.  That  yellowish  light,  half 
sunset,  half  moonrise;  the  stately  white  swans  floating 
past  us.  I  remepiber  telling  you  that  swan  might  be  a  sis- 
ter of  yours,  under  some  enchantment.  I,  too,  was  under 
the  enchantment.  Yes.  But  it  made  me  appear  like  a 
goose  instead  of  a  swan.  On  the  whole,  you  need  not 
remember  that  occasion,  Miss  Rosewarne! 

Eva  [sadly].  Tliirty-seven,  thirty-eight,  thirty- nine, 
forty,  forty-one. 

Alfred.  And  in  the  morning,  as  I  waited  on  the  cliff 
for  you,  I  understood  how  the  earth  waits  for  the  dawn 
to  illuminate  it.  Well,  I  have  had  my  day;  it  was  bright, 
but  the  sunset  came  too  soon. 

Eva  [dreamily].     Forty-two,  forty-three,  forty-four. 

Alfred.  The  sea  sang  of  you,  the  waves  sparkled  for 
you,  all  the  sirens  had  given  their  magic  to  you,  and  their 
harping  must  have  been  like  the  sound  of  the  sea-wind  in 
your  hair. 

Eva  [with  an  effort  at  7nockery].  Fortv-fivc,  forty-si.x, 
forty-seven,  forty-eight,  forty-nine,  fifty. 

Alfred.  If  you  really  think  me  comic,  let  me  go  on. 
I  dreamed  of  you — don't  you  like  the  present  way  of 
arranging  the  flowers  low,  so  that  one  hasn't  to  peep  this 
side  and  that  of  a  mountain  of  roses? 

Eva  [with  surprise].  Fifty-one,  fifty-two,  fifty-three, 
fifty-four,  fifty-five,  fifty-six. 

Alfred.  Major  Starr  was  listening.  He's  talking 
again  now.  Yes,  I  dreamed  of  you  and  of  you  only. 
I  still  dream — 


394  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Eva  [hurriedly].  Fifty-seven,  fifty-eight,  fifty-nine,  sixty, 
sixty-one,  sixty-two,  sixty-three,  sixty-four,  sixty-five, 
sixty-six,  sixty-seven,  sixty-eight — 

Alfred.  Don't  be  disturbed.  I  quite  understand  that 
dreams  are  ilhisions.     I  am  awake;  very  thoroughly. 

Eva  [softly].  Sixty-nine,  seventy,  seventy-one,  seventy- 
two. 

Alfred.  It  is  better  to  wake  than  to  dream;  but  if  one 
has  no  more  pleasure  in  either — then  best  to  sleep  soundly. 

Eva  [puzzled,  slightly  alarmed].  Seventy-three,  seventy- 
four,  seventy-five? 

Alfred.  Business  is  a  good  opiate.  I  expect  to  sail 
in  a  few  days  for  Europe. 

Eva  [ivith  resignation].     Seventj^-six. 

Alfred.  It  was  at  that  Casino  ball  I  first  began  to 
suspect  the  presence  of  that  inconvenient  third  party  in 
our  legend  of  Eden.  You  remember,  the  night  you  wore 
that  adorable  gown  the  color  of  a  plush  rose  and  trimmed 
with  tape? 

Eva  [with  horror].     Seventy-seven ! 

Alfred.  How  stupid  of  me !  Of  course,  it  wasn't  tape. 
I  used  to  be  posted  on  those  things  in  the  days  when  you 
were  so  good  as  to  explain  them  to  me.  At  all  events, 
that  was  a  delicious  gown. 

Eva  [with  conviction].     Seventy-eight,  sevent3^-nine. 

Alfred.  You  told  me  to  come  early.  Well,  I'd  been 
earlier  if  Dickey  Vane,  poor  old  chap,  hadn't  asked  me  to 
stop  in  so  he  could  see  how  a  fellow  looked  in  evening  dress 
going  off  for  a  good  time.  Great  good  time  I  had  that 
evening!  You  let  me  take  yovir  program  of  dances;  the 
trail  of  the  serpent — pardon  me,  I  should  say  the  auto- 
graph of  Count  von  Waldberg — was  over  it  all. 

Eva  [deprecatingly].     Eighty,  eighty-one,  eighty-two. 

Alfred.     I  know.     It's. quite  true  that  I  had  a  lancers^  a 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  395 

quadrille,  and  the  fag-end  of  a  mazurka.  ]5ut  the  waltz — 
our  waltz — you  danced  with  the  Count. 

Eva  [protestingli/].  Eighty-three,  eighty-four,  eighty- 
five. 

Alfred.  Of  course,  he  asked  for  it.  But  you  have  a 
thousand  pretty  ways  of  saying  no. 

Eva  [poignantly].    Eighty-six,  eighty-seven,  eighty-eight. 

Alfred.  Reserved!  If  I  had  understood!  Now,  I 
dare  not  even  hint  my  thanks  for  what — I  did  not  have. 

Eva  [with  recovered  composure].  Eighty-nine,  ninety, 
ninety-one,  ninety-two,  ninety-three,  ninety-four,  ninety- 
five. 

Alfred.  By  the  way.  Count  von  Waldberg  has  gone 
back  to  his  own  country,  and  rather  suddenly.  I  like 
that  about  him;  it's  a  case  where  the  absent  is  in  the  right. 
You  must  have  given  him  leave  of  absence. 

Eva  [reprovingli/].     Ninety-six,  ninety-seven. 

Alfred.  I  have  no  right  to  guess  at  what  may  have  taken 
place  between  yourself  and  Count  von  Waldberg.  It  was 
impertinent,  but  decidedly  agreeable,  that  surmise  of  mine. 

Eva  [with  increased  coldness].     Ninety-eight. 

Alfred.  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  I  must  speak — and  then 
forever  after  be  silent. 

Eva  [77iockinghi].     Ninety-nine ! 

Alfred.  Tiiat's  a  quotation  from — from — in — fact — 
something  that  I  was  interested,  a  wliile  ago,  to  coacii 
myself  upon. 

Eva  [with  marked  indifference].     One  hundred. 

Alfred.  You  have  reached  the  hundred.  And  you 
are  still  angry,  I'm  afraid.  Ah!  if  by  chance  it  seems  to 
you  that  you  have  said  anything  which  j'ou  would  rather 
have  left  unsaid, — ^we  all  do  that  sometimes,  you  know, — 
you  could  retract  it  by  counting  that  same  hundred  back- 
ward. 


396  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Eva  [assenting].  Ninety-nine,  ninety-eight,  ninety-seven, 
ninety-six. 

Alfred.  Oh,  this  is  a  comedy  that  we  are  playing! 
But  for  me  it  is  also  a  tragedy.  I  had  built  so  many  castles 
in  air,  and  you  were  chatelaine  of  them  all.  But  my  hfe 
has  ceased  to  be  logical;  it  has  gone  all  to  pieces.  I  shall 
pick  up  the  pieces, — I'm  not  a  whimpering  boy, — and  glue 
them,  screw  them,  clamp  them,  tie  them  together.  I 
don't  pretend  that  it  will  be  as  good  as  it  was  before  it 
was  broken  up. 

Eva  [ivith  remorse].  Ninety-five,  ninety-four,  ninety- 
three,  ninety- two. 

Alfred.  'Twas  not  your  fault.  I  did  not  deserve  you; 
only  I  loved  you  wdth  all  my  soul,  as — lieaven  help  me !  I 
love  you,  I  love  you  now! 

[Eva,  very  pale,  rattles  off  the  numbers  down  to  sixteen, 
and  stops  for  ivant  of  breath.] 

Alfred.  Poor  beautiful  child,  do  not  be  afraid.  I  will 
not  offend  in  this  way  again.  I  mean  to  tell  you  only  that 
amid  the  ruins  of  my  fallen  castle,  there  blossoms  an 
imperishable  flower — my  affection  for  you.  See,  Mrs.  Le 
Clerc  is  about  to  rise. 

[Eva  counts  desperately,  gets  to  three.] 

Alfred.  And  so,  it  is  good-by.  When  we  meet  in 
future,  it  will  be  as  mere  acquaintances  who  have  notliing 
to  say  to  each  other  except  the  commonplaces  of  society. 
We,  who  were  to  have  been  united,  must  henceforward 
be — [he  stops  short,  surprised  by  an  emotion  that  chokes 
his  voice  of  a  man  of  the  world]. 

Eva  [boldly  skipping  a  number].  One!  [She  recklessly 
drops  her  bouquet  as  she  rises  with  the  other  woinen]. 

Alfred  [stoops  to  pick  up  her  bouquet,  kisses  her  hand 
under  the  table,  and  says  in  a  rapturous  undertone].  One 
forever ! 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  397 

GOING  OF  THE  WHITE  SWAN. 


GiLBEiiT  Parker. 


TT  was  in  that  northoni  country — Labrador.  The  place 
was  the  home  of  a  hunter,  a  low  hut  with  parchment 
windows.  Outside  was  the  drifting  snow.  Inside  a 
huge  wood-fire  flecked  the  walls  and  .windows  with  a 
velvety  red  and  black. 

On  a  bed  of  wolf-skins  lay  a  Ijoy  of  nine  years.  Inside 
the  bed  sat  the  hunter. 

"Why  don't  mother  come  back,  father?" 

The  man  shook  his  head  and  made  no  reply. 

"She'd  come  if , she  knew  1  was  hurted,  wouldn't  she?" 

The  father  nodded  and  then  turned  restlessly  toward 
the  door  as  if  expecting  some  one. 

"Suppose  the  wild-cat  had  got  me,  she'd  be  sorry  when 
she  comes,  wouldn't  she?" 

There  was  no  rejily.  The  man's  uncouth  hand  felt  for 
a  place  in  the  bed  where  the  lad's  knee  made  a  lump  under 
the  robe,  which  he  softly  lifted,  folded  back,  and  slowly 
uncovered  the  knee.  The  leg  was  worn  away  almost  to 
skin  and  bone,  but  the  knee  itself  was  swollen;  so  was 
the  shoulder.  Both  bore  the  marks  of  teeth — where  a 
huge  wild-cat  had  made  havoc — and  the  body  had  long, 
red  scratches.  After  bathing  the  wounds,  the  hunter 
again  covered  up  the  small  disfigured  body. 

"Father,  what  docs  it  mean  when  you  hear  a  bird  sing 
in  the  middle  of  the  night?" 

"It  hasn't  no  meaning,  Dominique.  There  ain't  such 
a  thing  on  the  Labrador  Heights  as  a  bird  singin'  in  the 
night.  That's  only  in  warm  countries  where  there's 
nightingales." 


398  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  was  a  nightingale — it  didn't  sing  like 
anything  I  ever  heard." 

''What  did  it  sing  like,  Dominique?" 
'SSo  it  made  you  shiver.     You  wanted  it  to  go  on  and 
yet  you  didn't  want  it.     It  was  pretty,  but  you  felt  as  if 
something  was  going  to  snap  inside  of  you." 

"When  did  you  hear  it,  my  son?" 

"Twice  last  night — and — I  guess  it  was  Sunday  the 
other  time.  I  don't  know,  for  there  hasn't  been  no  Sun- 
day up  here  since  mother  left — went  away — has  there?" 

"Mebbe  not." 

"'Twas  just  the  same  as  Father  Corraine's  being  here, 
when  mother  had  Sunday,  wasn't  it?" 

The  man  made  no  reply,  but  a  gloom  drew  down  his 
forehead  and  his  lips  doubled  in  as  if  he  endured  physical 
pain.  For  weeks  he  had  listened  to  the  same  land  of 
talk  from  his  wounded  and,  as  he  thought,  d}T.ng  son, 
and  he  was  getting  less  and  less  able  to  bear  it. 

They  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  each  busy  in  his  own 
way.  At  last  the  boy  closed  his  eyes  and  seemed  about 
to  fall  asleep,  but  presently  looked  up  and  whispered: 
"I  haven't  said  my  prayers,  have  I?" 

The  father  shook  his  head  in  a  sort  of  rude  confusion. 

"I  can  pray  out  loud  if  I  want  to,  can't  I?" 

"Of  course,  Dominique." 

"I  forget  a  good  deal,  but  I  know  one  prayer  all  right, 
for  I  said  it  when  the  bird  was  singing.  It  isn't  one  out 
of  the  book  Father  Corraine  sent  mother;  it's  one  she 
taught  me  out  of  "her  own  head.     P'rhaps  I'd  better  say  it.'* 

"P'rhaps,  if  you  want  to."     The  voice  was  husky. 

The  boy  began: 

"0  bon  Jesu,  Who  died  to  save  us  from  our  sins,  listen 
10  Thy  child.  When  the  great  -^inds  and  rains  come 
down  from  the  hills,  do  not  let  the  floods  drown  us,  nor 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  399 

the  woods  cover  us,  nor  the  snowsUde  bury  us — "  His 
finger  twisted  involuntarily  into  the  bullet  hole  in  the 
pelt,  and  he  paused  a  moment.  "Keep  us  from  getting 
lost,  O  gracious  Saviour."  Again  there  was  a  pause,  his 
eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  said:  "Do  you  think  mother's 
lost,  father?" 

"Mebbe  so — niebbe  so." 

"And  if  mother's  lost,  bon  Jesu,  bring  her  back  again 
to  us,  for  everything's  going  wrong." 

Again  he  paused  and  then  went  on  with  the  prayer 
as  it  had  been  taught  him.  "O  Christ,  hear  us.  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  us.  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us.  Christ, 
have  mercy  upon  us.  Amen."  Then,  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  he  lay  back  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  man  sat  for  a  long  time  looldng  at  the  pale,  shining 
face.  The  longer  he  sat  the  deeper  -did  his  misery  sink 
into  his  soul.  His  wife  had  gone  he  knew  not  where, 
his  child  was  wasting  to  death,  and  he  had  for  liis  sorrows 
no  inner  consolation.  His  life  had  been  spent  in  the 
wastes,  and  a  youth  of  danger,  hardshii)s,  and  almost 
savage  endurance  had  given  him  a  half-barbarian  tem- 
perament, which  could  strike  an  angry  blow  at  one  moment 
and  fondle  to  death  the  next. 

When  he  married  sweet  Lucettc  Barbond  his  religion 
reached  little  farther  than  the  superstitions  of  the  North. 
His  wife  had  at  first  striven  with  him,  mourning,  yet 
loving.  Sometimes  the  savage  in  him  hatl  broken  out 
over  the  little  creature,  merely  because  barbaric  tyranny 
was  in  him — torture  followed  by  the  passionate  kiss.  An^ 
how  was  she  to  understand  hun? 

"VVTien  she  fled  from  their  home  one  bitter  day,  as  lie 
roared  some  wild  words  at  her,  it  was  because  her  nerves 
had  all  been  shaken,  and  his  violence  drove  her  mad. 
She  had  run  out  of  the  house,  and  on,  and  on,  and  on — 


400  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

and  she  had  never  come  back.  That  was  weeks  ago, 
and  there  had  been  no  -word  or  sign  of  her  since.  The 
man  was  now  busy  with  it  all. 

Hours  passed.  All  at  once,  without  any  motion  or 
gesture,  the  boy's  eyes  opened  wide  with  a  strange,  intense 
look. 

"Father,  when  you  hear  a  sweet  horn  blow  at  night, 
is  it  the  Scarlet  Hunter  calhng?" 

'^P'rhaps.     Why,  Domimq.ue?" 

"I  heard  one  blowing  just  now,  and  the  sounds  seem 
to  wave  over  my  head.  P'rhaps  he's  calling  some  one 
that's  lost." 

"Mebbe." 

"And  I  heard  a  voice  singing — it  wasn't  a  bird  to-night." 

"There  was  no  voice,  Dominique." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  waked,  and  you  were  sitting  there  think- 
ing, so  I  shut  my  eyes  again,  and  then  I  heard  the  voice; 
and  I  wonder  what  it  means  when  you  hear  a  voice  like 
that,  father?  There!  There  it  is  again!  Don't  you  hear 
it?     Don't  you  hear  it,  daddy?" 

"No,  Dominique;    it's  only  the  kettle  singing." 

"Daddy — I  saw  a  white  swan  fly  through  the  door  over 
your  shoulder  when  you  came  in  to-night." 

"No,  no,  Dominique;  it  was  a  flurry  of  snow  blowing 
over  my  shoulder." 

"But  it  looked  at  me  with  two  shining  eyes." 

"That  was  two  stars  shining  through  the  door,  my  son." 

The  man's  voice  was  anxious;  his  eyes  had  a  hungry, 
hunted  look.  The  legend  of  the  White  Swan  had  to  do 
with  the  passing  of  a  human  soul.  The  Swan  had  come 
in — would  it  go  out  alone?  He  touched  the  boy's  hand — 
it  was  hot  with  fever;  he  felt  the  pulse,  it  ran  high;  he 
watched  the  face,  it  had  a  glowing  light.  He  got  to  his 
feet  and  with    a    sudden  blind  humility  lit  two  candles, 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  401 

placed  them  on  a  shelf  in  the  corner  before  a  porcelain 
figure  of  the  Mrgin,  as  he  had  seen  his  wife  do.  Solemnly 
ho  touched  the  foot  of  the  Christ  on  the  cross  with  his 
finger-tips  and  brought  thorn  to  his  lips  with  an  indescrib- 
able reverence.  After  a  moment,  standing  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  face  of  the  crucified  figure,  he  said  in  a  shaking 
voice : 

"Pardon,  bon  Jcsu!  Save  my  child!  Leave  me  not 
alone!" 

The  boy  murmured  an  "amen"  and  fell  asleep. 

Outside  two  figures  were  approaching  the  hut — a  man 
and  a  woman. 

"Have  patience,  my  daughter,"  said  the  man.  "Do 
not  enter  till  I  call  you."  So  saying  he  raised  his  hand 
as  in  a  kind  of  benediction,  passed  to  the  door,  and  after 
tapping  very  softly,  opened  it  and  entered. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house,"  said  the  man  gently,  as  he 
stepped  forward  from  the  door.  The  father,  startled, 
turned  shrinkingly  on  him,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  spirit. 
"Monsieur  le  euro!"  he  exclaimed. 

"The  wife  and  child,  Bagot?  Ah,  the  bo\!  Dominique 
is  ill?" 

"A  wild-cat,  and  then  fever.  Pore  Corraine." 

The  priest  felt  the  boy's  pulse  softly. 

"Your  wife,  Bagot?" 

"She  is  not  here,  Mon.sieur." 

"Whore  is  she,  Bagot?" 

"I  do  not  know,  Monsieur.  "\Mion  did  you  see  her  last, 
Monsieur?" 

"That  was  •September,  this  is  October — winter.  On 
the  ranches  they  let  thin  cattle  loose  upon  the  plains  in 
winter,  knowing  not  where  they  go,  yet  looking  for  tiiem 
to  return  in  the  sjiring.  But  a  woman — a  woman  and  a 
wife  is  difTerent.     Bagot.  vou  have  boon  a  rough,   hard 


402  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

man,  and  you  have  been  a  stranger  to  your  God,  but  I 
thought  you  loved  your  wife  and  child." 

The  hunter's  hands  clenched  and  a  wicked  hght  flashed 
up  into  h's  eyes.  The  priest  sat  down  on  the  couch  where 
the  child  lay  and  took  the  fevered  hand  in  his.  "Stay 
where  you  are,  Eagot,"  he  said;  "just  where  you  are, 
and  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is." 

Bagot  began:  "I  don't  know  how  it  started.  I— I  laid 
my  powder-horn  and  whiskey-flask — up  there!"  He 
pointed  to  the  little  shrine  of  the  Mrgin,  where  his  candles 
were  now  burning,  and  continued:  "I  didn't  notice  it, 
but  she  had  put  some  flowers  there.  She  said  something 
with  an  edge,  threw  the  things  down  and  called  me  a 
heathen  and  a  wicked  heretic — I  don't  say  now  but  she'd 
a  right  to  do  it,  but  I  said  something  pretty  rough,  and 
made  as  if  I  was  going  to  break  her  in  two." 

"Yes,  that  was  what  you  did.  What  was  it  you  said 
that  was  'pretty  rough'?" 

"I  said  that  there  was  enough  powder  spilt  on  the 
floor  to  kill  all  the  priests  in  heaven." 

A  fire  suddenly  shol^  up  into  Father  Corraine's  face, 
and  his  lips  tightened  for  an  instant,  but  presently  he 
was  as  before,  and  he  said:    "Go  on.     What  else?" 

"Then  I  said,  'And  if  \drgins  have  it  so  fine,  why 
didn't  you  stay  one?'" 

"Blasphemer!  To  the  mother  of  your  child — shame! 
What  more?" 

"She  threw  up  her  hands  to  her  ears  with  a  cry  a  bit 
wild,  ran  out  of  the  house,  down  the  hills  and  away.  I've 
hunted  and  hunted,  but  I  can't  find  her."  • 

Once  again  the  priest  glanced  toward  the  lighted  candles, 
and  then  he  said:  "You  asked  me  if  I  had  heard  anything 
of  your  wife.  Listen.  Three  weeks  ago  I  was  camped 
on  the  Sandust  Plains.     In  the  morning,  as  I  was  lighting 


DELSARTE   RECITATION   HOOK.  -403 

a  fire  outside  of  my  tent,  I  saw  comini;;  over  the  crest  of 
a  land-wave  a  band  of  Indians.  AWll,  as  they  came 
near,  I  saw  that  thoy  had  a  woman  with  them." 

"A  woman! — my  wife!" 

"  Your  wife." 

"Quick!    Quick!    Go  on — oh,  go  on,  IMonsieur — — " 

"She  fell  at  vay  feet  begging  me  to  save  her.  I  waved 
her  off." 

"You  wouldn't — wouldn't  save  her — you  coward!" 

"Hush!  I  asked  the  chief  where  he  had  got  the  woman. 
He  said  he  had  found  her  on  the  plains — she  had  lost  her 
way.  I  told  him  1  wanted  to  buy  her.  He  said  that 
he  had  found  her,  and  she  was  his,  and  that  he  would 
marry  her  when  they  reached  the  great  camp  of  the  tribe. 
I  was  patient.  It  would  not  do  to  make*  him  angrJ^  I 
wrote  on  a  piece  of  bark  the  thmgs  that  I  would  give 
for  her:  An  order  on  the  company  at  Fort  (.)'Sin  for  shot, 
blankets,  and  beads.  He  said  no.  I  added  some  things 
to  the  list.  But  no,  he  would  not.  Once  more  I  put 
many  things  down.  God  knows  it  was  a  big  bill — it 
would  keep  me  poor  for  ten  }ears.  To  save  j^our  wife, 
John  Bagot,  you  who  drove  her  from  your  door,  blasphem- 
ing and  railing  at  such  as  \  \  He  shook  his  head  and  said 
he  must  have  the  woman  for  his  wife.  I  said:  'She  is 
white  and  the  white  people  will  never  rest  till  they  have 
killed  you  all  if  you  do  this  thi,ng.'  Then  he  said:  'The 
whites  must  catch  me  before  they  kill  mcl*  What  was 
there  to  do?" 

"You  let  her  stay  with  them — you,  with  hands  like  a 
man?" 

"Hush!     I  was  one  man,   they  were  twenty." 

"Why  didn't  you  offer  rum — rum!  They'd  have  done 
it  for  that — one — five — ten  kegs  of  rum!" 

"You  forget  that  it  is  against  the  law,  and  that  aa  a 


404  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION    BOOK. 

priest  of  my  order,  I  am  vowed  to  give  no  rum  to  an 
Indian." 

"A  vow!  A  vow!  Son  of  God,  what  is  a  vow  to  a 
woman — to  my  wife!" 

"Perjure  my  soul!  Offer  rum!  Break  my  vow  in  the 
face  -of  the  enemies  of  God's  Church!  A\Tiat  have  you 
done  for  me  that  I  should  do  this  for  you,  John  Bagot?" 

"Coward!  Christ  Himself  would  have  broken  a  vow 
to  save  her!" 

"Who  am  I  that  I  should  teach  my  ]\Iaster?  What 
would  you  give  Christ,  Bagot,  if  He  had  saved  her  to  you?" 

"Give — give!    I  would  give  twenty  years  of  my  life!" 

"On  your  knees  and  swear  it,  John  Bagot!" 

The  tall  hunter  dropped  to  his  knees  and  repeated  the 
words.  The  priest  turned  to  the  door  and  called, 
"Lucette!" 

The  boy  hearing,  waked  and  cried,  "Mother!  mother!" 
as  the  door  flew  open. 

The  mother  came  to  her  husband's  arms,  laughing  and 
weeping,  and  an  instant  afterward  was  pouring  out  her 
love  and  anxiety  over  her  child. 

"John  Bagot,  in  the  name  of  Christ,  I  demand  twentj'' 
years  of  your  life — of  love  and  obedience  to  God.  I  broke 
my  vow,  I  perjured  my  soul,  I  bought  your  wife  with  ten 
kegs  of  rum!" 

The  tall  hunter  dropped  again  to  his  knees,  and  the 
priest,  laying  the  crucifix  against  his  lips,  said  in  his 
rich,  soft  voice,  "Peace  be  unto  this  house!" 

"Oh,  my  mother,  I  saw  the  White  Swan  fly  through 
the  door  when  you  came  in."  She  clasped  the  boy  to 
her  breast  protectingly  and  whispered  a  prayer. 

And  there  was  peace,  for  the  child  lived  and  the  man 
has  kept  his  vow. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  405 

NAMED  BY  PROXY. 


Henry  Wallace  Phillips. 


T'D  been  working  on  the  Ellis  ranch  about  three  months 
when  along  come  a  man  that  looked  like  old  man 
Trouble's  only  son.  He  made  any  other  human  counte- 
nance I  ever  see  look  like  a  nigger-minstrel  show.  His 
name  was  Ezekiel  George  Wasliington  Scraggs. 

Up  to  this  time  Smithy  had  enjoyed  a  cinch  on  the  mourn- 
ful act.  He'd  had  a  girl  some  time  durin'  the  Mexican 
war,  and  she'd  borrowed  Smith's  roll  and  skipped  \\ith 
another  man.  So,  if  we  crowded  Smithy  too  hard  in  debate, 
he  used  to  say,  "Oh,  well!  You  fellers  will  know  better 
when  you've  had  more  experience/'  although  we  might 
have  been  talkin'  about  what's  best  for  frost-bite  at  the 
time. 

He  noticed  this  new  man  Scraggs  seemed  to  hold  over 
him  a  trifle  in  sadness,  and  he  thought  he'd  find  out  why. 

"You  appear  to  me  like  a  man  that's  seen  trouble,"  savs 
he. 

"Trouble!"  says  Scraggs.     "Trouble!" 

"I've  met  with  misfortune  myself,"  says  Smithy. 

"Ah!"  says  Scraggs,  and  Smithy  warmed  up.  He'd 
been  blew  up  in  mines;  squizzled  down  a  mountain  on  a 
snow-slide;  chawed  by  a  bear;  caught  under  a  felled  tree; 
sunk  on  a  Missouri  River  steamboat;  shot  up  by  Injuns 
and  personal  friends;  mistook  for  a  horse  thief  by  the 
committee,  and  nuich  else,  closing  the  list  with  right 
bower.  "And,  Mr.  Scraggs,  I  have  put  my  faith  in  woman, 
and  she  done  me  to  the  tune  of  all  I  had." 

"//aw  you?"  says  Scraggs,  still  perfectly  poUte.  "//are 
you?"  And  then  he  slid  the  joker  atop  of  Smithy's  play. 
"Well,  I  have  been  a  Mormon,"  says  he. 


406  DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"What?"  says  all  of  us. 

"Yessir!  a  Mormon;  none  of  your  tinkerin'  little  Mor- 
monettes.  I  was  ambitious;  hence  E.  G.  W.  Scraggs  as 
you  now  behold  him.  In  most  countries  a  man's  standin' 
is  regulated  by  the  number  of  wives  he  ain't  got;  in  Utah 
it's  just  the  reverse.  I  wanted  to  be  the  head  of  the  hull 
Mormon  kingdom,  so  I  married  right  and  left.  Every 
time  I  added  to  the  available  supply  of  Mrs.  Scraggs,  I 
went  up  a  step  .'n  the  government.  I  ain't  all  the  per- 
simmons for  personal  beauty,  so  I  had  to  take  what  was 
willin'  to  take  me,  and  they  turned  out  to  be  mostly  black- 
eyed  women  with  peculiar  dispositions.  Gentlemen,  I 
was  once  as  lively  and  happy  a  httle  boy  as  ever  did  chores 
on  a  farm.  See  me  now!  This  is  the  result  of  mixin' 
women  and  politics.  If  I  should  tell  you  all  the  kinds  of 
particular  and  general  devilment  (to  run  'em  alphabetically, 
as  I  did  to  keep  track  of  'em)  that  Ann  Eliza  Scraggs,  and 
Bridget  Scraggs,  and  Honoria  and  Helen  Scraggs,  and 
Isabelle  Scraggs,  and  so  on  up  to  zed,  raised  with  me,  it 
would  go  through  any  little  germs  of  joy  you  may  have  in 
your  constitutions  like  Sittin'  Bull's  gang  of  dog  soldiers 
through  an  old  lady's  sewing  bee.  Trouble!  I'm  bald 
as  a  cake  of  ice;  my  nerves  is  ruined.  If  the  wind  makes 
a  noise  in  the  grass  like  the  swish  of  skirts,  I'm  a  mile  up 
the  track  before  I  get  my  wits  back.  Trouble — I  wisht 
nobudy'd  mention  that  word  in  my  hearin'  again." 

Well,  he  had  us  all  right.  But  Scraggs  was  a  gentleman; 
now  that  he'd  had  his  say,  he  loosened  up  considerable,  and 
every  now  and  then  he'd  even  smile. 

Then  come  to  us  the  queerest  thing  in  that  whole  curi- 
osity-shop of  a  ranch.  It's  name  was  Alexander  Fulton. 
I  reckon  Aleck  was  about  twenty-one  by  the  almanac, 
and  anywheres  from  three  to  ninety  by  the  way  you 
figure  a  man.     Aleck  stood  six  foot  high  as  he  stood,  but 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  407 

if  you  ran  the  tape  along  his  curves  he  was  about  six-foot- 
four. 

He  weighed  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds,  of  which 
twenty-five  went  to  head  and  fifty  to  feet.  Feet!  You 
never  saw  such  feet.  They  were  the  grandest  feet  that 
ever  wore  a  man,  and  hung  to  Aleck's  running  gear,  they 
reminded  you  of  the  swinging  jigger  in  a  clock.  They 
almost  made  me  forget  his  hands.  "WTicn  Aleck  laid  a 
flipper  on  a  cayuse's  back,  you'd  think  the  critter  was 
blanketed. 

His  complexion  consisted  of  freckles.  His  eyes  were 
white,  and  so  was  his  hair,  and  so  was  poor  old  Aleck — as 
white  a  kid  as  they  make  'em.  How  he  come  to  drift  out 
into  our  country  was  a  story  all  by  itself.  He  was  dis- 
appointed in  love — he  had  to  be.  One  look  at  him  and 
you'd  know  why.  So  he  sailed  out  to  the  wild  "West, 
where  he  was  about  as  useful  as  a  trimmed  nighty. 

First  off  he  was  still,  then  findin'  himselfi  in  a  confi- 
dential crowd,  and  bustin'  to  let  us  know  his  trouble,  he 
told  us  all  about  it.  He'd  never  spoke  to  the  girl,  it  seems, 
more'n  to  say,  "How-d'ye-do,  ma'am,"  and  blush,  and  sit 
on  his  hat,  and  make  curious  moves  with  them  hands  and 
feet;  but  there  come  another  feller  along  and  Alexander 
quit. 

"You  got  away?"  says  Scraggs.  "Permit  me  to  con- 
gratulate you,  sir!" 

"But  I  didn't  want  to  come  away!"  stutters  Alex- 
ander. 

"Didn't  want  to?"  cries  Scraggs,  letting  the  j)ipe  fall  out 
of  his  mouth.  Then  he  turns  to  me  and  tai>s  his  brow  with 
his  finger,  casting  a  pitying  eye  on  Aleck. 

As  time  went  on  Aleck  got  woi"se  and  worse.  He  had  a 
case  of  ingrowing  affection;  it  cut  his  weight  down  to 
ninety  pounds.     With  him  leaving  liimself  at  that  rate, 


408  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOR. 

you  could  take  pencil  and  paper  and  figure  to  the  minute 
when  Alexander  Fulton  was  booked  to  cross  the  big 
divide.  And  we  liked  the  kid.  We  got  worked  up  about 
the  matter,  and  talked  it  over  considerable  when  he  was 
out  of  hearing.  It  come  to  this :  there  was  no  earthly  use 
in  trying  to  get  Aleck  to  go  back  and  make  a  play  at  the 
girl.  He'd  ha'  fell  dead  at  the  thought  of  it.  That  left 
nothing  but  to  bring  the  girl  to  Aleck.  We  weren't  going 
to  let  our  pardner  slip  away  without  an  effort  anyhow. 
Then  come  the  problem  of  who  was  the  proper  party  to  act 
as  messenger.  And  we  decided  on  Scraggs,  because  if  he 
didn't  know  Woman  and  her  Ways  the  subject  belonged 
to  the  lost  arts. 

But,  man,  didn't  he  r'arwhen  we  told  him! 

"Me  go  after  a  woman!"  says  he.  ''ME!!!— Take 
another  drink."  But  we  labored  with  him.  Told  about 
what  a  horrible  time  he'd  had — he  always  liked  to  hear 
about  it — and  how  there  wasn't  anybody  else  fit  to  handle 
his  discard  in  the  little  game  of  matrimony — and  so  forth 
and  so  forth,  till  we  had  him  saddled  and  bridled  and 
standing  in  the  corner  of  the  corral  as  peaceful  as  a  soldier's 
monument,  for  he  was  the  best-hearted  old  fellow  under 
his  crust  that  ever  lived. 

"All  right,"  says  he.     "I'll  do  it." 

So  that  night  E.  G.  W.  Scraggs  took  his  cajoise  and 
made  for  the  railroad  station,  bound  east. 

Aleck  had  give  us  full  details.  Yes,  sir;  we  knew  that 
little  East  Dakota  tow^n  as  well  as  if  we'd  been  raised  there; 
but  we  were  some  shy  on  details  concerning  the  girl.  I 
swear  I  don't  believe  Aleck  had  ever  looked  her  full  in  the 
face.  She  was  medium  height,  plump,  blue  eyes,  brown 
hair,  and  that  ended  the  description. 

Well,  we  suffered  any  quantity  from  impatience  before 
E.  G.  W.  S.  showed  up. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  409 

But  one  evening  about  half-past  eight  here  comes  Scraggs. 
He  was  riding  and  a  buggy  trailed  behind  him. 

We  chased  Aleck  over  to  the  main  house,  where  the 
old  man  was  to  keep  him  busy  until  called  for. 

Then  up  pulls  E.  G.  W.  S.  and  the  buggy. 

"Here  we  are,"  says  Scraggs.  "Check  the  outfit — one 
girl  and  one  splicer.     Have  you  kept  holt  of  Aleck?" 

"Yes,"  I  says.     "We've  got  him.     Come  in,  folks." 

Soon's  they  got  inside  I  lugged  him  to  the  corner.  "Tell 
me  about  it,"  I  says. 

"Short  s^ory,"  says  he.  "Moment  I  got  off  the  choo- 
choo  I  spotted  the  house.  Laid  low  in  the  daytime  and 
scouted  round  as  soon  as  night  come.  Girl  goes  down 
to  the  barn  and  comes  back  with  a  pail  of  milk.  I  grabbed 
her  and  put  my  hand  over  her  mouth.  'Now,  listen,' 
I  says.  'There's  a  friend  of  mine  wants  to  marry  you. 
When  I  let  you  go,  you'll  skip  into  the  house  and  pick 
up  what  clothes  is  handy,  and  you'll  vamoose  this  ranch 
at  quarter  of  eleven,  sharp,  so  we  can  make  the  next  train 
west.  If  you  ain't  there,  or  if  you  say  a  single  word  to 
a  human  being — you  see  this?'  and  I  stuck  the  end  of 
my  hoss- pistol  under  her  nose.  'Well,  I'll  blow  the 
head  clean  off  your  shouldere  with  it.'  Then  I  laitl  back 
my  ears  and  rolled  my  eyes  around. 

"Well,  sir,  she  was  scart  so's  she  didn't  know  any- 
thing but  what  I  said.  I  hated  to  treat  a  lady  like  that, 
but  if  I'Ve  learned  anj'thing  concerning  handlin'  the  sect, 
it's  this — you  got  to  be  firm.  There's  where  I  made  my 
mistake  formerly.  Then  I  let  go  of  her  and  went  back 
to  the  deppo.  AVliat  she  thought  I  couldn't  even  guess, 
but  I  knew  I  was  goin'  to  have  company,  and,  sure  enough, 
'bout  three  minutes  before  train  time,  here  comes  our 
friend.  When  I  got  her  safe  aboard  I  told  her  she  needn't 
be  scart.     Lots  worse  tilings  could  ha]>pcn  to  her  than 


410  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

marryin'  Aleck,  and  she  says  'Yessir/  and  she  kept  on 
sayin'  'Yessir'  to  all  I  told  her.  Wisht  I  could  have 
found  one  like  that,  instead  of  eighty  of  'em  that  stood 
ready  to  jump  down  my  throat  the  minute  I  opened 
my  mouth.  She  told  me  she'd  had  a  middlin'  hard  time 
of  it  and  didn't  mind  a  change.  That  surprised  me  a 
little,  because  I  jedged  from  Aleck's  talk  she  was  an  up- 
standin'  critter — but,  pshaw!  Aleck  would  think  a  worm 
was  a  sassy  thing  if  it  squirmed  in  his  direction." 

Then  I  went  after  Aleck. 

"Friend  of  yours  here,"  I  told  him. 

"That  so?"  says  he.     "Who  is  it?" 

"Lady,"  I  says,  kind  of  gay. 

He  stopped  in  his  tracks. 

"Come  along,  here,  now!"  says  I.  "You  ain't  goin'  to 
miss  your  happiness  if  main  strength  can  give  it  to  you." 
His  toes  touched  about  once  to  the  rod.  I  run  him  into 
the  place. 

"There,"  says  I,  "is  somebody  you  know." 

Well,  sir,  Aleck  looked  at  the  gal,  and  the  gal  looked 
at  Aleck,  and  the  rest  of  us  looked  at  each  other.  Soon's 
the  kid  got  his  breath  he  yells,  "I  never  laid  eyes  on  that 
lady  before!" 

Oh,  hivins,  Maria!  That  was  the  awfullest  minute  I 
ever  lived  through.  Poor  ole  E.  G.  W.  S!  We  all  turned 
away  from  him  out  of  pity.  He  grabbed  aholt  of  the 
minister  and  swallered  and  swallered,  unable  to  chirp. 

At  last  he  rallied.  "You  mean  to  tell  me,  Aleck,  that 
I've  made  a  mistake?" 

Aleck  was  always  willing  to  believe  he  was  wrong. 
"I'm  pretty  sure,  Zeke — I  ain't  never  seen  you,  have  I, 
Miss?" 

"  No,  sir — not  that  I  know  of." 

E.  G.  W.  S.  rubbed  his  brow. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  411 

"Will  you  make  good,  anyliow,  Aleck?  I  got  the  min- 
ister and  all  right  here — it  won't  take  a  minute." 

I'd  let  go  of  Aleck  in  the  excitement.  At  these  words 
he  made  one  step  from  where  he  stood  in  the  house,  through 
the  window,  to  ten  foot  out  of  doors,  and  a  few  more 
steps  like  that  and  he  was  out  of  the  ([ucstion. 

Then  the  girl  put  her  face  in  her  hands  and  begun  to 
cry.  She  was  a  mighty  pretty  little  thing,  and  we'd 
rather  have  had  most  anything  than  that  she  should  stand 
there  cryin'.     But  we  were  all  wandering  in  our  minds. 

Then,  sir,  up  gets  Ezekiel  George  Washington  Scraggs, 
master  of  himself  and  the  situation. 

"Young  lady,"  says  he,  "I  have  got  you  out  here  under 
false  pretenses.  I'm  as  homely  as  a  hedge  fence,  and  my 
record  is  dotted  with  marriages  worse  than  a  'Pache  out- 
break with  corpses  and  burning  homes.  I  ain't  any  kind 
of  proposition  to  tie  up  to  a  nice  girl  like  you,  and  I 
swear  by  my  honor  that  nothing  was  further  from  my 
thoughts  than  matrimony — not  meanin'  any  slur  on  you, 
for  if  I'd  found  you  before,  I  might  have  been  a  happy 
man.  Well,  here  I  stand;  if  you'll  marry  me,  say  the 
word!" 

By  thunder,  we  gave  him  a  cheer  that  shook  the  roof. 

The  girl   reached   out   her  left   hand.     She  liked   him. 

You  wouldn't  think  that  threatenin'  to  blow  her  brains 
out  was  just  the  touch  that  would  set  a  maiden's  heart 
tremblin'  for  a  man,  but  if  a  woman  takes  a  fancy  to 
you,  your  way  of  doing  things  generally  is  only  a  little 
matter  of  detail. 

"How  will  this  figger  out  legally?"  E.  G.  W.  S.  asked 
the  minister. 

The  minister  was  a  cheerful,  practical  sort  of  lad. 
"Do  you  renounce  the  Mormon  religion?"  he  asks. 
"Bet  your  life,"  says  Scraggs.     "And  all  its  works." 


412  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"That  settles  it/'  says  the  minister. 

"One  minute/'  says  Scraggs,  and  he  turned  to  the  girl 
very  gentle.  "Are  you  doing  this  of  your  own  free  "uill, 
and  not  because  I  lugged  you  out  here?" 

"Yessir/'  says  she. 

"You  want  me,  just  as  I  stand?" 

"Yessir." 

I  won't  forget  it.  Then  he  put  his  hand  on  her  head, 
took  off  liis  hat,  and  raised  his  face. 

"0  God,"  he  prays,  "you  know  what  a  miserable  time 
I've  had  in  this  line  before.  I  admit  it  was  nine-tenths 
my  fault,  but  now  I  call  for  an  honest  deck  and  the  hands 
played  above  the  table.  And  make  me  act  decent  for 
the  sake  of  this  nice  little  girl.     Amen." 

Then  he  pulled  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  out  of  liis 
pocket  and  plunked  her  down  before  the  minister. 

"Shoot,"  says  he. 

And  so  Scraggs  celebrated  his  eighty-first  marriage, 
and  they  Hved  as  happy  ever  after  as  any  story  book. 

And  now,  what  do  you  think  of  Aleck?  The  scare  we 
threw  into  him  that  night  wound  up  his  moanin'  and 
grievin'  about  the  other  girl.  He  never  cheeped  once 
after  that,  and  when  I  left  the  ranch  he  was  makin'  up 
to  a  widow  with  four  children,  as  bold  as  brass.  There 
was  more  poetry  in  E.  G.  W.  S.  than  there  was  in  Aleck, 
after  all. 


"  What  were  you  before  you  married?'' 
"  I  was  a  lecturer." 

"  Is  that  so?    What  made  you  drop  it?" 
"  Oh,  my  wife  took  it  up/' 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  413 

DE  CUSHV^ILLE  HOP. 


Ben  King. 


T  'SE  g\\'ine  down  to  do  Cushville  hop 

An'  dar  ain'  no  niggahs  gwine  ter  make  me  stop; 
Missus  gwine  to  deck  me  all  up  in  white, 
So  watch  de  step  dat  I'se  gettin'  in  ter  night. 
Um-hm,  my  honey,  'tain'  no  use; 
Um-hm,  my  honey,  turn  mo  loose, 
Um-hm,  my  honey,  watch  me  shine 
Wlien  mah  foot  am  a-shakin'  in  de  ole  coonjine. 

No  black  niggahs  come  foolin'  roun'  me, 

I'se  jes'  to  look  at,  any  one  can  see; 

I'se  jes'  a  orniment,  an'  I  mus'  'fess 

No  niggah  put  'is  ahm  roun'  mah  snow-white  dretss. 

Um-hm,  niggah,  keep  away,  understand? 

Um-hm,  niggah,  look  out  fo'  yo'  head; 

I'se  jes'  ter  gaze  at  I  mus'  'fess. 

So  don't  put  yo'  ahm  roun'  mah  snow-white  dress. 

Bring  out  de  ])anjo,  ])lunk-plank-pling, 
Watch  de  motion  of  muh  stop  'an  mah  swing; 
Don't  yo'  pestah  me  or  make  me  stop 
WTien  I  git  in  motion  at  de  Cushville  hop. 
Um-hm,  niggah,  keep  away,  keep  awajM 
Um-hm,  niggah,  not  ter  day ! 
Keep  away  from  me  kase  I  done  kain't  stop; 
I'se  jes'  caught  mah  motion  fo'  de  Cushville  hop. 


414  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

DEATH  OF  CRAILEY  GRAY. 


Booth  Tarkingtox. 


[Crailey  Gray,  the  ne'er-do-weel  and  light-o'-love;  Crailey  Gray, 
wit,  poet,  and  scapegrace,  the  well-beloved  scamp  of  Rouen,  lies 
dying,  shot  through  the  breast  by  the  father  of  Betty  Carewe,  to 
whom  he  was  making  love  in  the  guise  of  his  friend,  Tom  Vanrevel. 
It  was  the  eve  of  the  beginning  of  the  Mexican  War,  and  a  company 
with  Vanrevel  for  captain  and  Crailey  for  corporal  had  enlisted 
from  the  little  town  and  were  about  to  start  for  the  front.  Crailey, 
with  Fanchon  Bareaud,  his  fiancee,  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  bed, 
is  lying  near  the  window  in  a  room  in  the  Carewe  home.] 

"\JOT  long  after  sunrise  Crailey  asked  to  be  left  alone 
with  Tom. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Tom,"  he  said  faintly.  "  Tell  me — 
I  want  to  hear  it  from  you — how  many  hours  does  the 
doctor  say?" 

"Hours,  Crailey?" 

"I  know  it's  only  a  few." 

"They're  all  fools,  doctors!"  exclaimed  Vanrevel, 
fiercely. 

"No,  no.  I  know  that  nothing  can  be  done.  It  frightens 
me,  I  own  up,  to  think  that  so  soon  .I'll  be  wiser  than  the 
wisest  in  the  world.  Yet  I  always  wanted  to  know.  I've 
sought  and  I've  sought — but  now  to  go  out  alone  on  the 
search  for  the  Holy  Grail — I " 

"Please  don't  talk,"  begged  Tom,  in  a  broken  wliisper. 

Crailey  laughed  weakly.  "  There's  one  thing  I  want, 
Tom.  I  want  to  see  all  of  them  once  more,  all  the  old 
friends  that  are  going  down  the  river  at  noon.  I  want 
them  to  come  by  here  on  their  way  to  the  boat,  with  the 
band  and  the  new  flag.  But  I  want  the  band  to  play 
cheerfully.  Ask  'em  to  play  'Rosin  the  Bow,'  will  3'ou? 
I've  never  believed  in  mournfulness,  and  I  don't  want  to 
see  any  of  it  now.  I  want  to  see  them  as  they'll  be  when 
they  come  marching  home — they  must  look  gay!" 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  415 

"Ah,  don't,  lad,  don't!" 

The  vokniteers  gathered  at  the  court-house  two  hours 
before  noon.  They  met  each  other  dismally,  speaking  in 
undertones  as  they  formed  in  lines  of  four.  Not  so  with 
the  crowds  of  country  folks  and  townspeople  who  lined  the 
streets  to  see  the  last  of  them.  For  these,  when  the  band 
came  marching  down  the  street  and  took  its  place,  set  up 
a  royal  cheering  that  grew  louder  as  Jefferson  l^areaud, 
the  color-bearer,  carried  the  flag  to  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession. 

Jefferson  unfurled  the  flag;  .Marsh  gave  the  word  of 
command,  the  band  began  to  play  a  quickstep,  and  the 
procession  moved  forward  down  the  cheering  lane  of 
people,  who  waved  little  flags  and  handkerchiefs  and 
threw  their  hats  in  the  air  as  they  shouted.  But,  con- 
trary to  expectation,  the  parade  was  not  directly  along 
]\Iain  Street  to  the  river.  "Right  wheel!  March!''  com- 
manded Tappingham,  hoarsely,  waving  his  swortl,  and 
Jefferson  led  the  way  into  Carewe  Street. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  cry  now!"  said  Tappingham, 
with  a  large  drop  streaking  down  his  own  I'licck.  "That 
isn't  what  he  wants.  He  wants  to  see  us  looking  cheery 
and  smiling.  We  can  do  it  for  him  this  once,  1  guess!  I 
never  saw  him  any  other  way." 

"You  look  dunm  smiling  yourself!"  snuffled  one  of  the 
boys. 

"1  will  when  we  turn  in  at  the  gates,  (hi  niy  soul,  I 
swear  I'll  kill  every  sniflling  idiot  that  doe.sn'tl  In  line, 
there!" 

Tlio  lively  strains  of  the  liand  and  the  shouting  of  the 

people  grew  louder  and  louder  in  the  room  where  C'railey 

lay.      His  eyes  glistened   and   he  smiled   merrily,   like  a 

child. 

^"Hail  to  the  band!"  Crailey  chuckled,  softly.     "How 


416  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

the  rogues  keep  the  time !  It's  '  Rosin  the  Bow  '  all  right ! 
Ah,  that  is  as  it  should  be." 

"Hark  to  'em!  They're  very  near!  Only  hear  the 
people  cheer  them !  They'll  '  march  away  so  gaily,'  won't 
they?^ — and  Jiow  right  that  is!" 

Over  the  hedge  gleamed  the  oncoming  banner,  the  fresh 
colors  flying  out  on  a  strong  breeze. 

"There's  the  flag — look,  Fanchon,  your  flag! — wa\'ing 
above  the  hedge;  and  it's  Jeff  who  carries  it.  Doesn't 
it  always  make  you  want  to  dance  f 

The  procession  halted  for  a  moment  in  the  street  and  the 
music  ceased.  Then,  with  a  jubilant  flourish  of  brass 
and  the  roll  of  drums,  the  band  struck  up  "The  Star-span- 
gled Eanner,"  and  Jefferson  Bareaud  proudly  led  the  way 
through  the  gates  and  down  the  driveway,  the  bright  silk 
streaming  overhead.  Behind  him  briskh'  marched  the 
volunteers,  ^\^th  heads  erect  and  cheerful  faces. 

"Here  they  come!  do  you  see,  Fanchon?  They  are  all 
there.  God  bless  and  grant  them  all  a  safe  return! 
WTiat  on  earth  are  they  taking  off  their  hats  for? — Ah, 
good-by,  boys,  good-by!" 

They  saw  the  white  face  at  the  window  and  the  slender 
hand  fluttering  its  farewell,  and  Tappingham  halted  his 
men. 

"Three  times  three  for  Corporal  Gray!"  he  shouted, 
"  and  may  he  rejoin  his  company  before  we  enter  the  Mexi- 
can capital!" 

He  beat  the  time  for  the  thunderous  cheers  that  they 
gave;  the  procession  described  a  circle  on  the  lawn,  and 
then,  with  the  band  playing  and  colors  fl\ing,  passed  out 
of  the  gates  and  took  up  the  march  to  the  wharf. 

"The  flag,  the  flag!"  whispered  Crailey,  following  it 
with  his  eyes.  "  It's  so  beautiful.  Ah,  Tom,  they've  said 
we  abused  it,  sometimes — it  was  only  that  we  loved  it 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  417 

so  well  we  didn't  like  to  see  any  one  make  it  look  silly  or 
mean.  But,  after  all,  no  man  can  do  that — no,  nor  no 
group  of  men,  nor  party.  They'll  take  our  banner  across 
the  Rio  Grande,  but  that  is  not  all — some  day  its  stars 
must  spread  over  the  world!  Don't  you  all  see  that  they 
wUl?" 

He  closed  his  eyes  with  a  sigh;  the  doctor  bent  over 
him  quickly,  and  Miss  Betty  unconsciously  cried  out. 

The  blight  eyes  opened  again. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Crailey.  "Miss  Carewe,  may  I  tell 
you  that  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  have  known  you  sooner? 
Perhaps  you  might  liavc  liked  me  for  Fanchon's  sake — 
I  know  you  care  for  her." 

"I  do — I  cTo!"  she  faltered.  "I  love  her  and — ah! — 
I  do  like  you,  ^Ir.  (iray,  for  1  know  you,  though  I  never — 
met  you  until — last  night.  Clod  bless  you — God  bless 
you!" 

The  day  passed,  and  the  shadows  slanted  strongly  to 
the  eastj  when  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  sound,  low 
and  small  at  first,  then  rising  fearfully,  a  long,  quavering 
wail  of  supreme  anguish  that  clutched  and  shook  the 
listener's  heart.  No  one  could  have  recognized  the  voice 
as  Fan(!hon's,  yet  every  one  who  heard  it  knew  that  it 
was  hers,  and  that  the  soul  of  Crailey  Gray  had  gone 
out  upon  the  quest  for  the  Holy  Grail. 


418  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE  VIRGINIAN'S  FINAL  VICTORY. 


Owen  Wister. 


[From  "  The  Virginian."     Copyright,  1902,  by  Macmillan  Company.] 

[The  Virginian — called  so  because  of  his  birthplace — a  horesman 
of  the  plains,  has  after  long  waiting  won  the  woman  he  loves,  fair- 
haired  Molly  Stark  Wood  of  Vermont.  She  has  been  in  Wyoming 
teaching  school  for  three  years,  but  has  never  become  accustomed 
to  its  wild  ways.  It  is  the  day  before  their  wedding-day  and  they 
have  journeyed  twelve  miles  to  the  town  where  the  well-beloved 
Bishop  awaits  them.  There,  to  his  disgust,  the  Virginian  finds  that 
his  only  enemy,  Trampas,  has  preceded  him.  The  Virginian  is  the 
noblest  type  of  cowboy,  as  Trampas  is  the  vilest,  and  there  have 
been  several  struggles  between  them,  in  which  the  ^'^irginian  has 
always  come  out  victorious.  Therefore  Trampas  hates  him  with 
a  deadly  hatred ;  and  now,  on  this  the  happiest  day  of  the  Virginian's 
life,  Trampas  orders  him  to  leave  town  before  sundown  and  be 
branded  a  coward  or  fight  a  duel  with  him.  The  ^^irginian's 
friends,  the  Bishop  among  them,  beg  him  for  Molly's  sake  to  leave 
town,  but  they  all  know  in  their  hearts  that  the  crisis  must  be  met.] 

nPHE  Virginian  unlocked  the  room  in  the  hotel  where 
he  kept  his  many  accoutrements  for  the  bridal 
journey  in  the  mountains.  I'rom  among  his  possessions 
he  took  quickly  a  jnstol,  v^iping  and  loading  it,  for  fifteen 
of  the  forty  minutes  were  gone. 

"The  Bishop  is  wrong,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  sense 
in  telhng  her."  And  he  turned  to  the  door  just  as  she 
came  to  it  herself. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  and  rushed  to  him. 

He  swore  as  he  held  her  close. 

"Who  had  to  tell  you  this?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.     Somebody  just  came  and  said  it." 

"This  is  mean  luck"   [he  murmured,  patting  her]. 

"I  wanted  to  run  out  and  find  you;  but  I  didn't!  I 
stayed  quiet  in  my  room  till  they  said  you  had  come  back. 
How  could  you  be  so  long?  Never  mind,  I've  got  you 
now.     It  is  over." 

Note. — The  words  inclosed  in  brackets  [  ]  the  reader  may  omit. 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  419 

"I  might  have  known  some  fool  would  tell  you." 

"It's  all  over.     Never  mind." 

"I  know  it  is  a  heap  worse  for  you  "  [he  pursued,  speak- 
ing slowly].     "I  knew  it  would  be." 

"But  it  is  over!" 

He  kissed  her.  "Did  you  think  it  was  over?  There  is 
some  waiting  still  before  us.  I  wish  you  did  not  have 
to  wait  alone.  But  it  will  not  be  long.  I  did  my  best. 
1  let  him  say  to  me  before  them  all  what  no  man  has  ever 
said,  or  ever  will  again.  I  kept  thinking  hard  of  you. 
And  I  gave  him  a  show  to  change  his  mind.  ]iut  he  stood 
to  it.  He  went  too  far  in  the  hearing  of  others  to  go 
back  on  his  threat.  He  will  have  to  go  on  to  the  finish 
now." 

"The  finish?" 

"Yes"  [he  answered  very  gently]. 

Her  dilated  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"But — "  [she  could  scarce  form  utterance] — "but  you?" 
"Wliat,  are  you  going — "  [She  put  hea-  two  hands  to  her 
head.]  "Oh,  God!  you  are  going — "  He  made  a  step, 
and  would  have  put  his  arm  around  her,  but  she  backed 
against  the  wall,  staring  at  him. 

"I  am  not  going  to  let  him  shoot  me"  [he  said  quietly]. 

"  But  you  can  come  away !  It's  not  too  late  yet.  Every- 
body knows  that  you  are  brave.  Whsxt  is  he  to  you? 
I'll  go  with  you  anj^vhere.  Oh,  won't  you  Hsten  to  me?" 
[She  stretched  her  hands  to  him.]     "Won't  j'ou  listen?" 

He  took  her  hands.     "I  must  stay  here." 

"No,  no,  no.  There's  something  else.  There's  some- 
thing better  than  shedding  blood  in  cold  blood.  AMiy,  it's 
what  they  hang  people  for!     It's  murder!" 

"Don't  call  it  that  name,"  he  said  sternly.  "Listen 
to  me.     Are  you  listening?" 

She  nodded. 


420  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"1  belong  here.  If  folks  came  to  think  I  was  a 
coward " 

"Who  would  tliink  you  were  a  coward?" 

"Everybody." 

"  When  it  was  explained " 

"There'd  be  notliing  to  explain."  . 

"There  is  a  higher  courage  than  fear  of  outside  opinion." 

"Cert'nlj^  there  is.  That's  what  I'm  sho^^ing  in  going 
against  yours." 

"But  if  you  know  that  you  are  brave,  and  if  I  know 
that  you  are  brave,  oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  what  difference 
does  the  world  make?  How  much  higher  courage  to 
go  your  own  course " 

"I  am  goin'  my  own  course.  If  any  man  happened 
to  say  I  was  a  thief,  and  I  heard  about  it,  would  I  let 
hirn  go  on  spreadin'  such  a  thing  of  me?  AMiat  men 
say  about  my  nature  is  not  just  merely  an  outside  thing. 
For  the  fact  that  I  let  'em  keep  on  sa^an'  it  is  a  proof 
I  don't  value  my  nature  enough  to  shield  it  from  their 
slander  and  give  them  their  punishment.  Can't  you  see 
how  it  must,  be  about  a  man?'^ 

"I  cannot, — when  I  think  of  to-morrow,  of  you  and 
me,  and  of — if  you  do  this,  there  can  be  no  to-morrow 
for  you  and  me." 

"Do  5^ou  mean — this  would  be  the  end?" 

Her  head  faintly  moved  to  signify  yes. 

"Will  you  look  at  me  and  say  that  ?"  [he  murmured 
at  length].     She  did  not  move.     "Can  you  do  it?" 

She  gazed  at  him  across  the  great  distance  of  her  despair. 

His  hand  closed  hard. 

"Good-by,  then,"  he  said. 

At  that  word  she  was  at  his  feet.  "For  my  sake,"  she 
begged  him.     "For  my  sake." 

A  tremble  passed  through  his  frame.     Looking  up,  she 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  421 

saw  that  his  eyes  were  closed  with  misery.  Then  he 
unclasped  her  hands,  raised  her  to  her  feet  and  was  gone. 
She  was  alone. 

The  Virginian,  for  precaution,  did  not  walk  out  of  the 
front  door  of  the  hotel.  He  went  through  back  ways, 
and  paused  once.  Against  his  breast  he  felt  the  wedding- 
ring  where  he  had  it  suspended  by  a  chain  from  his  neck. 
He  drew  it  out  and  looked  at  it,  and  his  arm  went  back 
to  hurl  it  from  him  as  far  as  he  could.  But  he  stopped, 
kissed  it  with  one  sob,  and  thrust  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
walked  out  into  the  open,  watching.  He  soon  gained  a  posi- 
tion where  no  one  could  come  at  him  except  from  in  front. 

"It  is  quite  a  while  after  sunset,"  he  heard  himself  say. 

A  wind  seemed  to  blow  his  sleeve  off  his  arm ;  he  replied 
to  it,  and  saw  Trampas  pitch  forward.  He  looked  at  his 
pistol  and  saw  the  smoke  flowing  upward  out  of  it. 

"I  expect  that's  all,"  he  said  aloud.  "Both  of  mine 
hit.  His  must  have  gone  mighty  close  to  my  arm.  I 
told  her  it  would  not  be  me." 

He  had  scarcely  noticed  that  he  was  being  surrounded 
and  congratulated.     His  heart  was  like  lead  within  him. 

"If  anybody  wants  me  about  this,"  he  said  to  the  men 
around  him,  "I  will  be  at  the  hotel." 

"\Mio'll  want  you?"  said  his  friend.  "Three  of  us 
saw  his  gun  out.     You  were  that  cool!    That  quick!" 

"I'll  see  you  boys  again,"  said  the  ^'irginian,  heavily. 
He  walked  to  the  hotel  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his 
sweetheart's  room. 

"You  have  to  know  it,"  said  he.  "I  have  killed 
Trampas." 

"Oh,  thank  God!"  she  cried;  "thank  God!"  and  he 
found  her  in  his  arms. 

The  next  day,  with  the  Bishop's  blessing,  the  N'irginian 
departed  with  his  bride  into  the  mountains. 


422  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

THE  WIDOW'S  REVENGE. 


Frank  R.  Stockton. 


nPHE  widow  Keswick  and  Mr.  Brandon,  an  elderly 
lawyer,  had  once  been  friends, — lovers,  indeed,  in  the 
days  that  were  gone  by, — but  a  few  years  after  she  had 
refused  liim  and  married  j\Ir.  Keswick.  Trouble  about 
some  land,  which  she  believed  the  lawyer  had  cheated  her 
out  of,  arose  between  them  and  created  an  irreconcilable 
breach  which  had  never  healed,  and  ever  since  one  had 
constantly  been  trying  to  get  the  better  of  the  other. 

Mrs.  Keswick  always  spoke  of  i\Ir.  Brandon  in  the  most 
biting  and  contemptuous  tones,  and  he  regarded  her  with 
holy  horror,  for  great  had  been  the  change  both  in  Mrs. 
Keswick's  appearance  and  tongue  since  he  first  knew  and 
loved  her.  This  being  the  case,  the  servants  of  Mr.  Bran- 
don's household  were  thrown  into  a  state  of  amazement 
when  one  bright  morning  the  widow  drove  up  into  the 
yard  and  announced  that  she  had  come  to  see  Mr.  Brandon. 
She  presented  rather  a  remarkable  figure  as  she  descended 
from  the  cart  in  which  she  had  driven  over.  In  one  hand 
she  firmly  clasped  a  large  purple  umbrella.  Her  dress 
was  a  plain  calico,  blue  spotted  with  yellow,  and  was  very 
narrow  and  short  in  the  sldrt,  barely  touching  the  tops 
of  her  boots — the  very  shortest  and  most  ser\dceable  she 
could  procure  in  the  village.  Her  shoulders  were  covered 
with  a  small  red  shawl  fastened  with  a  large  somewhat 
tarnished  silver  broach.  On  her  head  was  a  sunbonnet 
whose  age  dated  back  several  years. 

''Where  is  your  Master?"  she  asked  one  of  the  servants. 

"Mars  Roberts  is  in  de  liberary.  "V\lio  shall  I  tell  Mars 
Roberts  is  come?" 


DELSARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  423 

"There  is  no  need  to  tell  him;  just  take  me  to  liim." 

Mr.  ]-5randon  was  seated  by  a  table  in  an  arm-chair  in 
front  of  a  good  fire,  enjoying  his  morning  paper;  but  when 
he  heard  the  door  open  and  looked  up  to  find  the  widow 
Keswick  standing  in  the  room,  ever}^  idea  of  comfort  and 
satisfaction  seemed  to  A'anish  from  his  mind. 

"What,  ^ladam,  so  it  is  you,  .Mrs.  Keswick?" 

The  old  lady  did  not  immediately  reply,  her  head  dropped 
a  little  on  one  side,  a  broad  smile  bewrinkled  the  lower 
part  of  her  well-worn  visage;  and  with  her  eyes  half  closed 
behind  her  heavy  spectacles  she  held  out  both  her  hands, 
the  purple  umbrella  in  one  of  them,  and  exclaimed: 

"Robert,  I  am  yours." 

Mr.  l^randon.  having  recovered  from  his  first  surprise, 
had  made  a  step  forward, to  go  round  the  table  and  greet 
his  visitor,  but  at  these  words  he  stopped  as  if  he  had 
been  shot. 

"Don't  you  understand  me,  Robert?  Don't  you  remem- 
ber the  day,  many  a  good  long  year  ago,  it  is  true,  when 
we  walked  together  down  there  by  the  brook  and  you 
asked  me  to  be  yours?  I  refused  you,  Robert.  Although 
you  went  down  on  youi-  knees  in  the  damp  grass  and 
besought  me  to  give  you  my  heart,  I  would  not  do  it. 
That  heart  is  yours  now.  Robert.     /  am  yours." 

"Madam,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Of  the  days  of  our  courtship  and  of  your  love,  Robert. 
My  love  did  not  come  then,  but  it  is  here  now — here 
now." 

"Ahidam,  you  must  he  raving  crazy.  Those  things  to 
which  you  allude  happened  nearly  half  a  I'cntury  ago,  and 
since  that  you  have  lieen  marrietl  antl  settled  and " 

"Robert,  you  are  mistaken.  It  is  not  ciuite  forty-five 
years  since  that  morning,  and  why  should  hearts  like  ours 
allow  the  passage   of   time  or  the  mere  circumstance  of 


424  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

what  might  be  called  an  outside  marriage  come  between 
them." 
''Mrs.  Keswick — Madam,  you  will  drive  me  mad." 
"Robert,  do  not  try  to  crush  emotions  which  always 
were  a  credit  to  you,  although  in  those  days  I  did  not  tell 
you  so.  Your  hair  was  black  then,  now  it  is  gray,  Robert, 
and  I  remember  I  had  on  a  white  dress  with  a  broad  ribbon 
about  the  waist  and  neither  of  us  wore  specs.  WTiat  you 
said  to  me  was  very  fresh  and  sweet,  Robert,  and  it  all 
comes  to  me  now  as  it  never  came  before.  You  have 
never  loved  another,  Robert,  and  you  don't  know^  how 
happy  it  makes  me  to  know  that,  and  to  know  that  I  can 
come  to  you  and  find  j^ou  the  same  true  constant  lover 
that  you  were  forty-five  years  ago.  After  all  these  years 
I  have  learned  what  a  prize  your  true  love  is,  and  I  return 
it — I  am  yours." 

Mr.  Brandon  made  a  wild  attempt  to  leave  the  room, 
but  ]\Irs.  Keswick  was  too  quick  for  him.  With  tw^o  sud- 
den springs  she  reached  the  door  and  put  her  back  against 
it,  saying  "Don't  leave  me,  Robert.  I  have  not  told 
you  all.  Don't  you  remember  this  breastpin?  You  gave 
it  to  me,  Robert,  and  there  were  tears  of  joy  in  your 
eyes  the  first  day  I  wore  it.  Where  are  those  tears  now, 
Robert?  I  have  kept  it  all  these  years,  though  in  the 
lifetime  of  Mr.  K.  it  was  never  cleaned,  and  I  wore  it 
to-day,  Robert,  that  your  eyes  might  rest  on  [it  again, 
and  that  you  might  speak  to  me  the  words  you  spoke  to 
me  the  day  after  I  let  you  pin  it  on  my  white  necker- 
chief. You  waited  then,  Robert,  a  whole  day  before  you 
spoke,  but  you  needn't  wait  now.  Let  your  heart  speak 
out,  dear  Robert." 

With  a  stamp  of  his  foot  and  a  kick  at  a  chair  wliich  stood 
in  his  way,  dear  Robert  precipitately  left  the  room  by 
another  door  and  shortly  after  Mrs.  Keswick  saw  him  ride 


^ELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  425 

out  of  the  yard.     As  the  widow  drove  home  that  night 
alone  a  sui:)pressed  chuckle  burst  from  her. 

"Well,  1  reckon  the  old  scapegrace  has  got  his  money's 
worth  this  time.     G'lang." 

A  week  or  so  later,  on  New  Year's  day,  Mr.  Brandon  was 
sitting  in  his  library  with  Colonel  Macon,  an  elderly  gentle- 
man of  social  habits  and  genial  temperament.  They 
were  telling  anecdotes  of  by-gone  days,  and  were  in  ex- 
cellent humor,  when  a  servant  came  in  •v\'ith  a  note  for 
Mr.  Brandon.  The  old  gentleman  looked  at  the  address 
and  then  let  the  missive  fall  with  an  angry  ejaculation. 

"It's  from  that  old  witch,  the  widow  K.  I've  a  great 
mind  to  throw  it  into  the  fire  without  reading  it." 

"Don't  do  that;  it's  a  New  Year's  present  she  is  sending 
you.  Read  it,  sir;  read  it  by  all  means.  I'd  like  to 
know  what  sort  of  congratulations  she  offers  you." 

"Congratulations,  indeed;  you  needn't  expect  any- 
thing of  that  sort."     But  he  opened  the  note  and  read: 

"'My  dear  Robert' — Confound  it,  sir,  did  you  ever 
hear  such  impertinence? 

"'  It  is  not  for  me  to  suggest  anything  of  the  kind,  but 
I  write  this  note  simply  to  ask  you  what  you  think  of  our 
being  married  soon.  AVe  are  no  longer  young,  Robert, 
and  think  how  happy  we  might  be  beginning  this  year 
together.  Remember,  I  do  not  propose  this,  I  only  lay 
it  before  your  own  kindly  and  affectionate  heart.  Your 
own 

"'M.\RTiTA  A\x  Keswick.' 

"Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  that?  Marry  her? 
The  old  shrew,  does  she  imagine  that' anything  in  this 
world  would  induce  me  to  marry  her?" 

"Why,  my  dear  sir,  of  course  she  don't.  I  know  the 
widow  Kes^^•ick  as  well  as  you  do.  She  wouldn't  marry 
you  to  save  your  soul,  sir.     All  she  wants  is  to  worry  and 


426  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOKr 

torment  your  senses  out  of  you  in  revenge  for  your  once 
having  gotten  the  best  of  her.  Now,  take  my  ad\ace, 
sir,  and  don't  let  her  do  it." 

"I'd  hke  to  know  how  I  am  going  to  hinder  her." 

"Hinder  her!  Nothing  easier  in  the  world.  You  just 
turn  right  square  round  and  face  her,  sir;  and  youll', 
see  she  stops  short,  sir,  and  what  is  more,  she'll  run,  sir." 

"But  I  have  faced  her  and  I  assure  you  she  didn't  run." 

"That  was  because  you  didn't  do  it  in  the  right  way. 
Now,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  sir,  this  is  what  I  would 
do.  I'd  say  to  her,  '  j\Iadam,  I  think  your  proposition  is 
an  excellent  one;  I  am  ready  to  marry  3'ou  to-day  or 
at  the  very  latest  to-morrow  morning.'  Now,  sir,  a  note 
like  that  would  frighten  the  old  woman  so  she  would  go 
away  and  wouldn't  be  back  in  six  weeks." 

Mr.  B.  considered  a  moment. 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  that  is  a  royal  idea.  I  T^■ill  face  her, 
and  scare  her  out  of  her  five  senses." 

Pen,  ink,  and  paper  w^ere  at  hand,  and  the  letter  was 
soon  written,  though  very  carefully  constructed.  He 
stated  that  nothing  would  give  him  greater  pleasure  than 
an  immediate  wedding,  and  that  he  intended  starting 
for  the  city  the  next  day  and  would  be  rejoiced  to  meet 
her  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  covered  bridge  connecting  the 
Exchange  and  Ballard  Hotels  and  there  arrange  all  the 
details  for  an  immediate  wedding.  The  letter  was  signed 
"Your  devoted  Robert." 

"By  which  I  mean  I  am  devoted — to  her  destruction." 

The  next  day  the  two  old  fellows,  chuckling  at  the 
way  they  had  scared  the  widow,  went  at  the  appointed 
hour  to  the  bridge.  There  seated  in  a  cons])icuous  place 
was  the  widow,  umbrella  and  all. 

"Robert,  I  knew  how  true  and  faithful  you  would  be. 
It  has  just  struck  eleven.    How  do  you  do,  Colonel  JMacon?" 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  427 

Colonel  Macon  was  pale,  yet  he  retained  his  ])resence 
of  mind. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you  again,  Mrs.  Keswick.  Let  us  go 
to  one  of  the  parlors;  you  will  find  it  more  comfortable." 

The  Colonel  did  not  stay  long  in  the  parlor,  however; 
there  was  that  in  the  air  of  Mrs.  Keswick  which  plainly 
told  his  company  might  be  much  more  welcome  else- 
where. In  about  half  an  hour  there  came  down-stairs 
a  man  who  somewhat  resembled  Mr.  Brandon.  Colonel 
Macon  made  five  strides  towards  him. 

"What— how " 

"It  is  all  over." 

"Over — have  you  settled  it.  then?    Is  she  gone?" 

"It's  settled — we  are  to  be  married." 

"]\Iarried!     Good  heavens   man   what  do  you  mean?" 

In  low  cjuavering  tones  ]\Ir.  P)ran(lon  told  liis  friend  that 
it  was  inevitable. 

"It  was  a  mistake,  sir,  to  suppose  she  merely  wished  to 
torment  me.  She  wished  to  marry  me — and  she  is  going 
to  do  it." 

The  Colonel  ])owed  his  face  upon  his  hands  and  groaned. 

"Do  not  reproach  yourself,  sir, "  said  Mr.  Brandon.  "  We 
thought  we  were  acting  for  the  best." 

Little  more  was  said,  and  soon  afterward  the  two 
crushed  old  gentlemen  retired  to  their  rooms. 

The  widow  Keswick,  as  usual,  took  all  the  arrangement 
for  the  wedding  into  her  own  hands.  She  decided  that 
it  should  be  in  the  church,  and  that  all  her  old  friends 
and  those  of  Mr.  Brandon  should  be  invited  to  be  present. 
Accordingly,  when  the  day  she  had  set  arrived  the  church 
was  well  filled  with  old  colonels,  old  majors,  old  judges, 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  all  anxious  to  witness 
the  marriage  of  the  ancient  lovers.  TMien,  in  the  course 
of  the  marriage  ser\dce.  the  clergvman  asked  the  bride- 


428  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

groom  if  he  would  have  this  woman  to  be  his  wedded  wife, 
to  love  and  keep  her  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  the  answer, 
"I  will,"  came  forth  in  a  feeble  tone  not  wholly  divested 
of  a  tinge  of  despondency.  With  the  lady  it  was  quite 
otherwise.  When  the  like  question  was  put  to  her,  she 
stepped  back  and  in  a  loud  clear  voice  exclaimed: 

"Marry  him!  Not  I,  not  for  the  world  sir!  "  and  with 
these  words  she  turned  and  walked  cjuickly  down  the  isle 
to  the  door,  where  again  her  voice  rang  out : 

"Now,  Mr.  Robert  Brandon,  our  account  is  balanced." 


MR.  TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT. 


Richard  Harding  Davis. 


VT'OUNG  Travers,  who  had  been  engaged  to  a  girl  down 
on  Long  Island  for  the  last  three  months,  only  met 
her  father  and  brother  a  few  weeks  before  the  day  set  for 
the  wedding.  The  brother  is  a  master  of  hounds  near 
Southampton,  and  shared  the  expense  of  importing  a 
pack  from  England  with  Van  Bibber.  The  father  and 
son  talked  horse  all  day  and  until  one  in  the  morning; 
for  they  owned  fast  thoroughbreds,  and  entered  them  at 
the  Sheepshead  Bay  and  other  race-tracks.  Old  Mr.  Pad- 
dock, the  father  of  the  girl  to  whom  Travers  was  engaged, 
had  often  said  that  when  a  young  man  asked  him  for  his 
daughter's  hand  he  would  ask  him  in  return,  not  if  he 
had  lived  straight,  but  if  he  could  ride  straight.  And  on 
his  answering  this  ciuestion  in  the  affirmative  depended 
his  gaining  her  parent's  consent.  Travers  had  met  ]\Iiss 
^addock  and  her  mother  in  Europe,  while  the  men  of  the 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  429 

family  were  ;it  home.  He  was  invited  to  their  place  in 
the  fall  when  the  hunting  season  opened,  and  spent  the 
evening  most  pleasantly  and  satisfactorily  with  his  fiancee 
in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  But  as  soon  as  the 
women  had  gone,  young  Paddock  joined  him  and  said, 
"You  ride,  of  course?"  Travers  had  never  ridden;  but 
he  had  been  prompted  how  to  answer  by  Miss  Paddock, 
and  so  said  there  was  nothing  he  liked  better.  As  he 
expressed  it,  he  would  rather  ride  than  sleep. 

"That's  good,"  said  Paddock.  "I'll  give  you  a  mount  on 
Satan  to-morrow  morning  at  the  meet.  He  is  a  bit  nasty 
at  the  start  of  the  season ;  and  ever  since  he  killed  Wallis, 
the  second  groom,  last  year,  none  of  us  care  much  to  ride 
him.  But  you  can  manage  him,  no  doubt.  He'll  ju.st 
carry  your  weight." 

Mr.  Travers  dreamed  that  night  of  taking  large,  desper- 
ate leaps  into  space  on  a  ^^dld  horse  that  snorted  forth 
flames,  and  that  rose  at  solid  stone  walls  as  though  they 
were  hayricks. 

He  was  tempted  to  say  he  was  ill  in  the  morning — 
which  was,  considering  his  state  of  mind,  more  or  less 
true — but  concluded  that,  as  he  would  have  to  ride  sooner 
or  later  during  his  \T,sit,  and  that  if  he  did  break  his  neck 
it  would  be  in  a  good  cause,  he  determined  to  do  his  best. 
He  did  not  want  to  ride  at  all,  for  two  excellent  reasons — 
first,  because  he  wanted  to  li\e  for  Miss  Paddock's 
sake,  and,  second,  because  he  wanted  to  live  for  liis 
own. 

The  next  morning  was  a  most  forliidding  and  doleful- 
looking  morning,  and  young  Travers  had  great  hopes  that 
the  meet  would  be  declared  off;  but  just  as  he  lay  in 
doubt  the  servant  knocked  at  his  door  with  his  riding 
things  and  his  hot  water. 

He   came   down-stairs  looking   \er\-   miserable  indeed. 


430  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

iSatan  had  been  taken  to  the  place  where  they  were  to 
meet,  and  Travers  viewed  him  on  his  arrival  there  with  a 
sickening  sense  of  fear  as  he  saw  him  pulHng  three  grooms 
off  their  feet. 

Travers  decided  that  he  would  stay  \\ith  his  feet  on 
solid  earth  just  as  long  as  he  could,  and  when  the  hounds 
were  thrown  off  and  the  rest  had  started  at  a  gallop  he 
waited,  under  the  pretense  of  adjusting  his  gaiters,  until 
they  were  all  well  away.  Then  he  clenched  his  teeth, 
crammed  his  hat  down  over  his  ears,  and  scrambled  uj) 
on  to  the  saddle.  His  feet  fell  quite  by  accident  into  the 
stirrups,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  off  after  the  others, 
wdth  an  indistinct  feeling  that  he  was  on  a  locomotive  that 
was  jumping  the  ties. 

Satan  was  in  among  and  had  passed  the  other  horses  in 
less  than  five  minutes,  and  was  so  close  on  the  hounds  that 
the  whippers-in  gave  a  cry  of  warning.  But  Travers  could 
as  soon  have  pulled  a  boat  back  from  going  over  the  Niagara 
Falls  as  Satan,  and  it  was  only  because  the  hounds  were 
well  ahead  that  saved  them  from  having  Satan  ride  them 
down.  Travers  had  taken  hold  of  the  saddle  wdth  his 
left  hand  to  keep  himself  down,  and  sawed  and  swayed  on 
the  reins  "v\ith  his  right.  He  shut  his  eyes  whenever  Satan 
jumped,  and  never  knew  how  he  happened  to  stick  on; 
but  he  did  stick  on,  and  was  so  far  ahead  that  no  one  could 
see  in  the  misty  morning  just  how  badly  he  rode.  As  it 
was,  for  daring  and  speed  he  led  the  field,  and  not  even 
young  Paddock  was  near  him  from  the  start.  There  was 
a  broad  stream  in  front  of  him,  and  a  hill  just  on  its  other 
side.  No  one  had  ever  tried  to  take  this  at  a  jump.  It 
was  considered  more  of  a  smm  than  anything  else,  and 
the  hunters  always  crossed  it  by  the  bridge,  toward  the 
left.  Travers  saw  the  bridge  and  tried  to  jerk  Satan's 
head  in  that  direction ;  but  Satan  kept  right  on  as  straight 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  431 

as  an  express  train  over  the  prairie.  Fences  and  trees  and 
furrows  passed  by  and  under  Travers  like  a  panorama  run 
by  electricity,  and  he  only  breathed  by  accident.  They 
went  on  at  the  stream  and  the  hill  l^eyond  as  though  they 
were  riding  at  a  stretch  of  turf,  and.  though  the  whole  field 
set  up  a  shout  of  warning  and  dismay,  Travers  could  only 
gasp  and  shut  his  eyes.  He  remembered  the  fate  of  the 
second  groom  and  shivered.  Then  the  horse  rose  like  a 
rocket,  lifting  Travers  so  high  in  the  air  tlmt  he  thought 
Satan  would  never  come  down  again ;  but  he  did  come  down, 
with  his  feet  bunched,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream. 
The  ne.xt  instant  he  was  up  and  over  the  hill  and  had 
Stopped  panting  in  the  very  center  of  the  pack  that  were 
snarling  and  snapping  around  the  fox.  And  then  Travers 
showed  that  he  was  a  thoroughl^red,  even  though  he  could 
not  ride,  for  he  hastily  fuml)led  for  his  cigar-case,  and 
when  the  field  came  pounding  up  over  the  bridge  and  around 
the  hill,  they  saw  him  seated  nonchalantly  on  his  saddle, 
puffing  critically  at  a  cigar  and  giving  Satan  patronizing 
pats  on  the  head. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  old  Paddock  to  his  daughter  as  they 
rode  back,  "if  you  love  that  young  man  of  yours  and  want 
to  keep  him,  make  him  promise  to  give  up  riding.  A 
more  reckless  and  more  brilliant  horseman  I  have  never 
seen.  He  took  that  double  jump  at  the  gate  and  that 
stream  like  a  centaur.  But  he  will  break  his  neck  sooner 
or  later,  and  he  ought  to  be  stopped."  Young  Paddock 
was  so  delighted  with  his  prospective  brother-in-law's 
great  riding  that  that  night  in  the  smoking-room  he  made 
him  a  present  of  Satan  before  all  the  men. 

"No,"  said  Travers,  gloomily,  "I  can't  take  him.  Your 
sister  has  asked  me  to  give  up  what  is  dearer  to  me  than 
anything  next  to  herself,  and  that  is  my  riding.  You  see, 
she  is  absurdly  anxious  for  my  safety,  and  she  has  asked 


432  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

me  to  promise  never  to  ride  again,  and  I  have  given  my 
word." 

A  chorus  of  sympathetic  remonstrances  rose  from  the 
men. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Travers  to  her  brother,  "it  is  rough, 
but  it  just  shows  what  sacrifices  a  man  will  make  for  the 
woman  he  loves." 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CLEFT  HEART. 


Theodosia  Garrison. 


[From  Smart  Set,  by  permission  of  the  publishers.] 


Time:   afternoon.     The  season:   May. 
The  scene:    Love's  Shop,  Arcadian  Way. 
Love  at  the  counter;    Maiden  at  the  door. 

Note. — Passages  enclosed  in  [     ]  may  be  omitted  in  reciting. 

MAIDEN 


T"S  this  the  place? — I've  not — been  here — before 

LOVE  [aside] 
Ah,  a  new  customer — I  know  the  blush — 
[Poor  child !    She's  all  a-quiver  as  a  thrush 
Thrills  before  singing.     [Boiving]  Sweetheart,  from  your 

face] 
I  can  assure  you  that  this  is  the  place. 
The  Sign  of  the  Cleft  Heart.     Hearts,  old  and  new, 
Always  in  stock;  repairing  done  here,  too. 
Exchanges  made  and  offered 

MAIDEN 

Nay,  sir,  I 
Have  only  come 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  433 

LOVE  [aside] 
That  blush  again. 

'  MAIDEN 

— to  buy. 

LOVE 

[Good !     Look  about  you.     Here  are  hearts  a  score] — 
Choose  any  one 

MAIDEN 

Think  you  I  wanted  more? 
One's  ahnost  too  expensive.     JMother  prayed 


[love  [aside] 
Venus!  these  mothers — how  they  help  the  trade?] 

MAIDEN 

— Prayed  me — to — be  content  a  year  or  two 
With  none — or  let  her  choose  for  me. 

love 

Yet  3'ou 

MAIDEN 

I  came  alone,  because  I  thought  that  she — 
That  I — in  fact,  our  tastes  might  not  agree. 

LOVE 

Quite  so.     [In  fact,  when  ancient  ladies  call 
I  often  find  their  tastes  the  worst  of  all 
And  yet  they're  suited  easily,  but  you — 
You  youngsters  puzzle  me.]     [Picking  ^(p  a  heart.]     Will 
this  one  do? 

MAIDEN  [reflectitig] 
Urn!  yes;  it's  large,  but  then  it  seems  so  green. 


434  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

LOVE 

Yes,  it  is  fresh,  but  then  it's  just  nineteen 
And  full  of  poetry.  [Why,  it  could  speak 
An  hour  about  the  dimples  in  your  cheek. 
And  then  how  pure  it  is ! — no  spot,  no  stain] 


MAIDEN 

Uninteresting!    Put  it  back  again. 

LOVE  [aside] 
[So  that  to  girlhood  is  what  boy  love  means? 
I'll  put  this  by  for  someone  beyond — teens.] 
Well,  look  at  this  one. 

•  MAIDEN 

Oh,  but  that's  so  small. 

[love 
And  yet  so  heavy.     Quick,  don't  let  it  fall! 

maiden] 
So  small,  yet  heavy  that  I  scarce  can  hold — 


love 
It's  brimmed  quite  to  the  very  top  with  gold. 
[No  romance  left;  no  touch  of  hope  or  fire, 
But  hard,  bright  gold.] 

maiden 
[It's  not  what  I  desire,] 
The  horrid,  heavy  thing,  yet 

love 

Be  confessed. 
maiden 
I  think  mamma  would  have  me  like  it  best. 


DELS  A  RTF  RECITATION   BOOK.  435 

LOVE 

It's  not  for  sale;    left  for  an  exchange. 

MAIDEN 

For  wliat? 

LOVE 

A  tender,  maiden  heart. 

MAIDEN 

How  strange 

LOVE 

Not  strange  at  all— [exchange  of  pounds  and  pence 
For  youth  and  purity  and  innocence. 
The  thing's  done  every  day.] 

MAIDEN 

But  you — but  you — ? 

LOVE 

Not  strictly  in  my  line,  you  mean.    Quite  true — 
A  side  branch  of  the  trade,  not  really  mine; 
It  only  bears  my  signature  and  sign, 
And  they  wear  off.     But  see,  will  this  one  do? 

MAIDEN 

Why,  Love,  how  can  you?  Look,  it's  broken  through  I 

LOVE 

Of  course,  of  course;  yet,  if  you  really  cared 
To  have  the  thing,  it's  easily  repaired, 
[And  no  one's  wiser.     Treat  it  thus  and  so, 
And  in  a  month  the  crack  will  scarcely  show. 

MAIDEN 

But  still  I'd  know  it. 


436  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 


LOVE 


True,  but  think  what  wit 
And  cleverness  you'd  show  in  mending  it.] 


MAIDEN 


Well,  I'll  consider  that;  but  this  one,  see! 
So  nicked  and  cracked 

LOVE 

Oh,  handle  carefully! 
It's  fragile,  but  in  good  condition. 

MAIDEN 

True, 
Yet  I  prefer  the  one  that's  broken  through 
To  this  one,  with  its  horrid,  hundred  cracks. 

LOVE  [aside] 

There  spake  the  woman!    This  one,  then;  this  lacks 
Nothing  to  make  it  what  you  most  desire. 
A  perfect  article,  complete,  entire. 

MAIDEN 

But  it  looks  shopworn. 

LOVE 

Well,  the  fact  appears 
It's  been  for  sale  for  something  like  ten  years. 

MAIDEN 

Ugh!     No,  a  thing  like  that  would  never  do. 
I  want  a  heart — that — others  covet,  too. 
[Now  let  me  see — is  not  this  one • 


DELSARTE  RECITATION   BOOK.  437 

LOVE 

Tliat's  black 
In  certain  lights,  and  damaged.     Put  it  back; 
It's  not  the  thing  you're  looking  for  at  all. J 
Now  this  one 

•  MAIDEN 

That's  too  cold. 

LOVE 

And  this? 


Too  small. 


Oh,  oh! 


MAIDEN 
liOV  E 

Well,  reall3^  I  have  nothing  else  to  show. 
You  might  stop  in  to-morrow,  say 

MAIDEN 

Look  there  1 

LOVE 

Look  where? 


MAIDEN 

Why,  there,  ujion  the  shelf, — 
The  very  thing — I'll  take  it  down  myself — 
Indeed,  the  nicest  one  you  have  in  store. 

LOVE 

That's  not  for  sale. 

MAIDEN 

Oh,  get  it,  I  imitlore! 
I'll  give  you  anything  you  ask — and  more. 


438  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

LOVE 

It's  not  for  sale.     I'm  storing  it,  that's  all. 
Until  that  day  a  certain  maid  shall  call 
And  claim  it. 

MAIDEN 

Was't  not  I? 

LOVE 

No,  no,  my  dear. 
The  owner's  last  instructions  were  too  clear. 

MAIDEN 

Alas,  what  were  they? 

LOVE 

"Take  this  heart,"  he  said, 
"And  put  it  by  wdth  hearts  uncomforted. 
Show  it  to  none,  until  a  maid  one  day 
Comes  searching  for  a  heart  she  threw  away. 
Then  take  this  down,  and  if  it  be  the  same, 
Across  and  through  it  will  be  vmt  her  name." 

MAIDEN 

Alas,  what  more? 

LOVE 

He  said,  "Her  eyes  are  blue '! 


MAIDEN 

And  mine  are  brown — but  would  not  brown  eyes  do? 

LOVE 

He  said,  "Her  hair  is  golden  as  the  track 
Of  sunshine  on  the  sea." 

MAIDEN 

And  mine  is  black. 
But  she  has  never  come? 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  43'J 

LOVE 

Not  yet. 

MAIDEN 

Then  oh, 
Give  me  the  heart?     T  want  it,  want  it  so. 
Dear  Love,  give  me  the  heart. 

LOVE 

I  should  not  dare. 

MAIDEN 

She  has  forgotten  it — she  would  not  care. 
Give  it  to  me 

LOVE 

It  is  not  meant  for  you. 
Here  are  so  many  others — won't  they  do? 
Take  two  or  three 

MAIDEN 

I  only  want  that  one. 

LOVE 

Really,  I'm  sorry,  but  it  can't  be  done. 

MAIDEN  [in  tears]  ' 

Please,  Love,  oh,  please,  oh,  cruel 

LOVE 

No — no — no.' 

MAIDEN 

You  horrid,  horrid,  cruel  thing!    I'll  go 

Straight  home  and  tell  my  mother.     What  is  more. 

I'll  have  that  one! 


440  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

LOYE    [solus] 

Whew!     How  she  slammed  the  door 
And  how  she  begged!     Poor  child,  she'll  know  some  day 
The  tricks  Love  plays  to  make  the  business  pay. 
Why,  bless  me,  look  at  this — a  happy  find ! 
Poor  little  soul,  she's  left  her  heart  behind 
Instead  of  taking  one  away.     Dear,  dear. 
Give  me  the  steps  and  let  me  store  it  here 
Close  by  the  other — so,  beneath  the  rose — 
And  when  she  comes  to-morrow — well,  who  knows? 


MORIAH'S  MO'NIN'. 

Ruth  McEnery  Stuart. 


1\ /rORIAH  was  a  widow  of  a  month,  and  when  she  an- 
nounced  her  intention  of  marrying  again,  the  plan- 
tation held  its  breath.     Then  it  roared  with  laughter. 

Not  because  of  the  short  period  of  her  mourning  was 
the  news  so  incredible,  but  Moriah  had  put  herself  upon 
record  as  the  most  inconsolable  of  widows.  After  her 
husband  Numa's  funeral  Moriah  had  rashly  cast  her  every 
garment  into  the  dye-pot,  sparing  not  even  so  much  as  her 
underwear. 

Moriah  was  herself  as  black  as  a  total  eclipse,  and  when 
it  became  known  that  her  black  garb  was  not  merely  a 
thing  of  the  surface,  the  j^lantation  folks  were  profoundly 
impressed. 

"Moriah  sho'  does  mo'n  for  Numa.  She  mo'ns  f'om 
de  skin  out."     Such  was  popular  comment. 

And  this  woman  it  was  who,  after  eight  years  of  respect- 
able wifehood  and  but  four  weeks  of  mourning  her  lost 
mate,  calmly  announced  that  she  w^as  to  be  married  again. 


"O  Thou,  Who  chaiigcst  not,  abide  witli  mc." 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  441 

The  man  of  her  choice  was  a  nei<ililjor  whom  she  had 
always  known,  a  widower  whose  bereavement  was  of  three 
months'  longer  standing  than  her  own. 

The  courtship  must  have  been  brief  and  to  the  point, 
for  he  and  his  fiancee  had  met  but  three  times  in  the 
interval  when  the  banns  were  published. 

He  had  been  engaged  to  wliitewash  the  kitchen  in 
which  she  pursued  her  vocation  as  cook. 

The  whitewashing  was  done  in  a  single  morning,  l^ut  a 
second  coating  was  found  necessary,  and  it  was  said  by 
one  of  her  fellow-servants  that  while  Pete  was  putting 
the  finishing-touches  to  the  bit  of  chimney  back  of  her 
stove,  Moriah,  who  stooped  at  the  oven  door  beside  him, 
basting  a  roast  turkey,  lifted  up  her  stately  head  and  said, 
archly,  breaking  her  mourning  record  for  the  first  time 
by  a  gleaming  display  of  ivory  and  coral  as  she  spoke: 

"Who'd  'a'  thought  j'ou'd  come  into  my  kitchen  ter  do 
yo'  secon'  co'tin',  Pete?" 

At  which  the  whitewash  brusli  fell  from  the  delighted 
artisan's  hands,  and  in  a  shorter  time  than  is  consumed 
in  the  telling,  a  surprised  and  smiling  man  was  sitting  at 
her  polished  kitchen  table  chatting  cosily  with  his  mourn- 
ing hostess. 

It  was  discovered  that  the  kitchen  walls  needed  a  third 
coating.  This  took  an  entire  day,  "because,"  so  said 
Pete,  "de  third  coat  hit  takes  mo'  time  ter  soak  in." 

An  1  then  came  the  annouuciMiient.  Moriah  herself, 
apparently  in  nowise  embarrassed,  bore  the  news  to  us. 

"Mis'  Cdadys."  she  said,  simply,  "I  come  ter  give  you 
notice  dat  I  gwine  take  fo'  days  off,  start  in'  ne\'  Sunday." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  in  any  new  trouble,  .Moi'inh?"  I 
said,  sympathet ically . 

"Well,  I  don'  know  of  1  is  or  not.  Me  an'  Pete  Point- 
de.xter,  wc  done  talked   it  ovc,  nn'  we  come  ter  ile  con- 


442  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

elusion  ter  marry.  Dey  ain't  no  onrespec'  ter  de  dead, 
Mis'  Gladys,  in  marryin'.  De  onrespec'  is  in  de  carryin's 
on  folks  does  when  dey  marry.  Pete  an'  me,  we  'low 
ter  have  eve'ything  quiet  and  solemncholy.  De  organ- 
player  he  gwine  march  us  in  chu'ch  by  de  same  march 
he  played  fur  Numa's  fun'al,  an'  look  like  dat  in  itse'f 
is  enough  ter  show  de  world  dat  I  ain't  forgot  Numa. 
An',  tell  de  trufe,  Mis'  Gladys,  ef  Numa  was  ter  rise  up 
f  om  his  grave,  I'd  sen'  Pete  a-flyin'  so  fast  you  could 
sen'  eggs  ter  market  on  his  coat-tail. 

"You  see,  de  trouble  is  I  done  had  my  eye  on  Pete's 
chillen  ever  sence  dey  mammy  died,  an'  ef  dey  ever  was 
a  set  o'  onery,  low-down,  sassy,  no-'count  little  niggers 
dat  need  takin'  in  hand  by  a  able-bodied  step-mammy, 
dey  awaitin'  fur  me  right  yonder  in  Pete's  cabin.  My 
hand  has  des  nachelly  itched  ter  take  aholt  o'  dat  crowd 
many  a  day — an'  ever  sence  I  buried  Numa  of  co'se  I  see 
de  way  was  open.  An'  des  as  soon  as  I  felt  like  I  could 
bring  myse'f  ter  it,  I — well — dey  warn't  no  use  losin'  time, 
an'  so  I  tol'  you,  missy^  dat  de  kitchen  need'  white- 
washin'." 

"And  so  you  sent  for  him — and  proposed  to  him,  did 
you?" 

"P'opose  ter  who.  Mis'  Gladys?  I'd  see  Pete  in  de 
sinkin'  swamp  'fo'  I'd  p'p  p'opose  ter  him!" 

"Then  how  did  you  manage  it,  pray?" 

"G'way,  Mis'  Gladys!  An.y  wide-awake  widder  'oman 
dat  kin  get  a  widder  man  whar  he  can't  he'p  but  see  her 
move  round  at  her  work  fur  two  days  hand-runnin',  an' 
can't  mesmerize  him  so'  she'll  ax  her  ter  marry  him — Um 
— hm!" 

"And  so,  IMoriah,  you  are  going  to  marry  a  man  that 
you  confess  you  don't  care  for,  just  for  the  sake  of  getting 
control  of  his  children?    I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you." 


DELSARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  443 

"Well — partly,  missy.  Partly  on  dat  account,  au' 
partly  on  his'n.  Pete's  wife  Ca'line,  she  was  a  good 
'oman,  but  she  was  mighty  puny  an'  peevish;  an'  besides 
dat,  she  was  one  o'  deze  heah  niggers,  an'  Pete  is  alius  had 
a  purty  hard  pull,  an'  I  lay  out  ter  give  him  a  better 
chance.  Co'se  I  don't  say  I  loves  Pete,  but  I  looks  ter  come 
roun'  ter  'im  in  time.     Ef  I  didn't,  I  wouldn't  have  him." 

"And  how  about  his  loving  you?" 

"Oh,  Mis'  Gladys,  you  is  so  searchin'!  Co'se  he  say  he 
loves  me  already  better'n  he  love  Ca'line,  but  of  co'se  a 
widder  man  he  feels  obleeged  tor  talk  dat-a-way.  An' 
ef  he  didn't  have  de  manners  ter  say  it,  I  wouldn't  have 
him,  ter  save  his  life;  but  ef  he  meant  it,  I'd  despise  him. 
But  of  co'se.  Mis'  Gladys,  I  ca'culates  ter  outstrip  Ca'line 
in  co'se  o'  time.  Ef  I  couldn't  do  dat — an'  she  in  'er 
grave — an'  me  a  cook — I  wouldn't  count  myself  nmch." 

"Can  I  help  you  with  your  wedding-dress,  Moriah?" 

"Bless  yo'  heart,  ]\Iis'  Gladys,  I  ain't  gwine  out  o' 
mo'nin'!  I  gwino  marry  Pete  in  des  what  I  got  on  my 
back.  I'll  marry  him,  an'  I'll  take  dem  little  no-'counts 
o'  his'n,  an'  I'll  make  folks  out'n  'em  'fo'  I  gits  th'ough 
wid  'em,  cf  Gord  spares  me;  but  he  nce'n't  ter  lay  out  ter 
come  in  'twix'  me  an'  my  full  year  o'  mo'nin'  fur  Numa. 
When  I  walks  inter  dat  chu'ch,  'cep'n'  fur  de  owange 
wreaf,  which  of  co'se  in  a  Christian  ma'iage  I'm  boun'  ter 
wear,  folks  '11  be  a  heap  mo'  'miudeil  o'  Numa  'a  dey  will 
o'  de  bridegroom.  An'  dem  chillen  o'  his'n,  which  ain't 
niver  is  had  no  proper  mo'nin'  fur  dey  mannny — I  gAvine 
put  'em  in  special  secon'  mo'nin',  'cordin'  ter  de  time  dey 
ought  ter  been  wearin'  it;  an'  when  we  walks  up  do  island 
o'  de  chu'ch,  dey  got  tor  foUer,  two  by  two,  kecpin'  time 
ter  de  fun'al  march. 

I  wishctl  her  joy,  and  bade  her  to  be  careful  to  make 
no  mistake. 


444  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

"Missy,  I  don't  believe  I  gwine  make  no  mistake.  I 
been  surveyin'  de  lan'scape  o'er  tryin'  ter  think  about 
eve'ything  I  can  do  ter  start  right.  I'm  a-startin'  wid 
dem  chillen,  puttin'  'em  in  mo'nin'  fur  Ca'hne.  Den,  fur 
Pete,  I  gwine  ring  de  changes  on  Ca'hne's  goodness  tell 
he  ax  me,  for  Gord  sake,  ter  stop,  so,  in  years  ter  come,  he 
won't  have  nothin'  ter  th'ow  up  ter  me.  An'  you  know 
de  reason  I  done  tooken  fo'  days  off,  missy?  I  gwine  on  a 
weddin'-trip  down  ter  Pine  Bluff,  an'  I  wants  time  ter  pick 
out  a  few  little  weddin'-presents  to  fetch  home  ter  Pete." 

"Pete!     Pete  is  going  with  you,  of  course?" 

"Pete  gwine  wid  me?  Who  sesso?  No,  ma'am! 
Why,  missy,  how  would  it  look  fur  me  ter  go  a-skylarkin' 
roun'  de  country  wid  Pete — an'  me  in  mo'nin'? 

"  No,  indeedy!  I  gwine  leave  Pete  home  ter  take  keer 
dem  chillen,  an'  I  done  set  him  a  good  job  o'  whitewashin' 
ter  do  while  Pm  gone,  too.  De  principles'  weddin'-present 
I  gwine  fetch  Pete  is  a  fiddle.  Po'  Pete  been  wantin'  a 
good  fiddle  all  his  life,  an'  he  ain't  niver  is  had  one.  But, 
of  co'se,  I  don't  'low  ter  let  him  play  on  it  tell  de  full  year 
o'  mo'nin'  is  out.     No,  ma'am!" 


THE  MARSEILLAISE  OF  THE  GREEKS. 


CONSTANTINE    RhIGAS. 


1753-1798. 


/^HILDREN  of  heroic  Greece, 

^-^     Liberty  flames  in  our  eyes. 

If  you  would  pay  heed  to  its  magic  voice 

You  must  prove  worthy  of  your  sires. 

An  implacable  tyranny 

Dared  to  crush  us  beneath  its  law. 

But,  0  country  of  ours,  we  are  ready 

To  avenge  thee.     Arise!  Arise! 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  445 

Sons  of  Greece,  to  arms; 
May  our  tyrants,  overwhelmed, 
Mingle  their  blood  with  our  tears, 
As  it  flows  beneath  our  feet. 

Give  new  life  to  your  illustrious  ashes, 

O  generous  spirits  of  our  heroes ! 

Leave  your  funereal  homes, 

Shake  off  the  dust  of  the  tombs! 

Seek  ye  the  City  of  Seven  Hills, 

The  city  of  old-time  splendor! 

Arise  boldl}'^  over  the  ruins, 

And,  when  I  summon,  go  forth  and  ( onquerl 

Why  slumber,  Sparta,  so  illustrious. 
When  the  day  dawns  so  brightly? 
Oh,  raise  high  your  queenly  head 
And  call  Athens  to  your  side ! 
Come,  come,  my  brave  fatherland, 
Gather  the  prizes  of  battles; 
Break  the  chains  which  have  b'ighted  you! 
Remember  Leonidas ! 

Yonder,  yonder  at  Thermoi)ykie 

His  war-cry  has  soundetl ! 

In  vain  nimble  troops  of  Persians 

Dash  themselves  against  him ! 

With  the  utmost  daring  lie  defies  them. 

Backetl  by  the  Three  Hundretl,  he  charges  them. 

And,  like  a  maddened  lion. 

He  scatters  death  through  their  ranks! 

Sons  of  Greece,  to  arms! 
May  our  tyrants,  ovcrwhelmeil, 
Mingle  their  blood  with  our  tears. 
As  it  flows  beneath  our  feet. 


446  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

BERYL'S  HAPPY  THOUGHT. 


A  THANKSGIVING   STORY. 


Blanche  Willis  Howard. 


'T^HE  Gardines  and  the  Gl^ndons  assembled  in  full 
force,  and,  arrayed  in  wedding  garments,  stood  on 
the  platform  of  the  railway  station  at  Pineville,  concen- 
trating their  attention  upon  two  young  people  at  a  window 
of  a  parlor-car. 

"Be  sure  and  not  take  cold,  Beryl." 

"Write  often,  won't  you?" 

"And,  John,  if  you  should  happen  to  see  Cousin  Thomas, 
give  him  my  love." 

"And  mine  to  Cousin  Anne,  Beryl." 

"And  a  kiss  to  dear  little  Charlie.". 

"And  remember  to  give  my  kindest  regards  to  old 
Dr.  Mason." 

"Oh,  Beryl,  the  aconite  and  nux  are  in  a  corner  of 
your  dressing-case.". 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  old  fellow." 

"And  take  good  care  of  Beryl.". 

"And  write  often." 

"Don't  take  cold." 

And,  above  the  whirling  fragments,  the  voice  of  Aunt 
Susan  Glyndon  rang  out,  clear  and  conmianding  as  a 
war-tnmipet,  "Children,  come  home  for  Thanksgiving!" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Gardine,  but  two  hours  previously 
pronounced  man  and  wife,  he  twenty-one,  dark,  a  genuine 
Gardine;  she  seventeen,  fair,  a  true  Glyndon,  now  fairly 
off,  gave  one  long  look  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  broke 
into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"If  Aunt  Susan  only  knew!"  began  Beryl,  as  soon  as 
she  could  speak. 


DELS  ARTE  RECirATION  BOOK.  447 

"If  any  of  them  knew!"  returned  Jack. 

"Thanksgiving,  indeed!     'J'he  most  dreadful  day!" 

"Thanksgiving  is  the  family,"  Jack  cliimed  in. 

"And  such  a  family!" 

"And  when  we  consider,"  reflected  her  husband,  "that 
it's  not  the  etiquette  of  the  Spanish  court,  but  purely 
affectionate  interest  which  has " 

"Watched  over  us,  and  followed  us,  and  accompanied  our 
goings-out  and  comings-in,  and  listened  to  every  word  we've 
spoken,  and  repeated  it  to  twenty-six  Glyndons '[ 

"And  twenty-seven  Gardines." 

"And  suffocated  us  with  sympathy  so  closely  that 
we've  never  been  really  alone  together  until  now." 

"I  can't  yet  realize  that  we've  escaped,  and  that  some 
of  them  won't  appear  in  a  moment — Cousin  Carry  with 
her  eternal  cup-cake." 

"Or  mamma  with  a  shawl." 

"Or  Harry  wanting  help  with  his  algebra." 

"Or  Aunt  Susan  simply  and  literally  hanging  round." 

"Yes,  Beryl,  she  was  the  worst." 

"To  think  that  even  when  you  first  told  me  that  you 
loved  me,  and  we  did  suppose  we  were  quite  alone." 

"And  it  was  just  dusk,  and  you  looked  like  an  angel 
in  your  white  dress." 

"And  there  we  stood  on  the  ]):uk  piazza — and  my 
heart  was  beating  so  fast!" 

"And  I  began  to  fear  you  liked  Bob." 

"Oh,  Jack!   Bob?" 

"And  it  was  so  still " 

"Wlien  suddenly  Aunt  Susan  coughed  quite  distinctly 
at  the  second-story  window,  antl  called  out:  'Well,  Beryl, 
don't  dilly-dally.  Speak  up  and  say  you'll  have  him, 
and  then  hm'ry  in  to  tea,  or  the  mufiins  will  fall.'  Oh, 
Jack!'^ 


448  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Everybody  knew  that  this  conspicuously  blissful  young 
couple  had  tickets  for  Boston.  Yet  as  the  train  went  on, 
after  a  brief  stop  at  a  certain  obscure  little  station,  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  car  fitood  two  empty  chairs.  The 
train  steamed  on  and  bore  to  Boston  two  ownerless  trunks, 
each  marked  with  a  large  G.,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Gardine,  in  a  country  chaise,  fled  through  November 
twilight  mists,  their  faces  turned  seaward. 

No  seclusion  could  be  more  complete  than  that  of  the 
shooting-box  in  which  Jack  and  Beryl  sought  refuge  from 
the  clamorous  attentions  of  their  friends.  The  small 
rough  house  stood  on  a  bleak  point,  which,  for  all  romantic 
purposes,  sufficiently  resembled  the  traditional  desert 
island,  being  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  wild  waves, 
while  its  approach  from  land  was  at  most  seasons  sub- 
merged enough  to  necessitate  wading.  Jack's  deceased 
uncle  had  left  him  the  key  to  this  shooting-box,  with  some 
more  valuable  possessions,  in  his  will. 

Pipes  and  card-tables,  prehistoric  cigar-stumps,  and 
eloquent  bits  of  broken  wine-glasses  met  Beryl's  glance 
of  innocent  surprise  as  she  entered  the  first  low,  roughly 
plastered  room. 

A  stag's  head  raised  its  proud  antlers  over  the  door, 
and  on  a  shelf  perched  a  graduated  row  of  owls,  twelve 
in  number. 

John  had  sent  out  fuel,  as  well  as  a  huge  supply  of 
Albert  biscuit,  canned  meats,  fruits  and  vegetables, 
pickles  and  sardines.  What  more  could  two  fond  hearts, 
seeking  a  prolonged  tete-a-tete,  desire? 

For  weeks  Beryl  had  longed  for  this  moment,  but  no 
lofty  sentiment  occurred  to  either  of  them,  as  John,  breath- 
less and  a  little  grimy,  after  having  made  the  fires  in  the 
disused  stoves,  turned  and  embraced  his  bride. 

"Alone — at  last!"  he  exclaimed. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  449 

"Yes,"  responded  Beryl,  "and  how  pleasant  it  is! 
Jack,  how  did  your  uncle  look?  Was  he  tall  and  terril)ly 
pale?" 

"What  a  joke!  He  was  rather  short  and  stout,  and 
awfully  jolly." 

.  "How  he  must  have  suffered!"  she  murmured,  pen- 
sively. "Jack,  how  long  did  he  ever  stay  in  this  place 
alone  at  any  one  time?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Six  weeks,  perhaps.  But  he  liked 
it." 

"Oh,  Jack!   is  that  gun  loaded?" 

"If  it  is,  it  won't  go  off.     It's  too  damp." 

"Oh,  don't  go  near  it;  it  might  burst.  Oh,  please 
don't  trifle  with  it.  Can't  you  take  it  up  gently  and  throw 
it  out  of  the  window?" 

"Why,  Beryl,  I  didn't  know  you  were  afraid  of  a  gun." 

"Every  sensible  person  is  afraid  of  a  gun,"  she  rejoined, 
with  a  touch  of  asperity  born  of  fear. 

Jack  looked  wonderingly  at  her,  and  was  silent. 

"Jack,  if  burglars  should  attack  us!" 

"Burglars!  Why,  there  isn't  a  burglar  in  the  world 
mean  enough  to  show  himself  in  a  hole  like  this." 

The  sea  sounded  angry  and  threatening.  The  feeble 
lamp-flame  was  l)urning  on  one  side  of  the  wick,  and  strug- 
gling painfully  for  existence.  Suddenly  Berjd  leaned  for- 
ward. The  next  instant  she  was  poised  on  a  chair,  tightly 
clutching  her  skirts  and  hoUling  tluMu  high. 

"Oh,  Jack!   oh.  Jack!   oh,  Jack!"  she  screamed. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Beryl " 

"Oh,  can't  you  sec?     Oh,  Jack,  it's  a  niouf<e!   There!" 

He  gave  one  glance  at  the  corner  indicated  In'  iior 
desperate  gesture,  another  at  her  convulsi\e  altitude, 
then  broke  into  laughter. 

Beryl  cast  one  exhaustive  glance  at  the  corner,  sprang 


450  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

down,   and  bursting  into  tears,   threw  herself  upon  the 
sofa. 

They  began  their  picnic  life  the  next  morning  with 
much  sprightliness.  Getting  breakfast  presented  certain 
difficulties,  which  they  enjoyed.  It  rained  hard,  appar- 
ently "setting  in  for  a  long  November  storm." 

After  breakfast  they  seated  themselves  on  the  ascetic 
sofa,  the  long  rainy  day  stretching  on  before  them.  Silence 
reigned  in  the  cottage. 

"You  didn't  happen  to  put  a  pack  of  cards  in  your 
traveling-bag?"  asked  Jack  presently. 

"No,  dear;   certainly  not." 

"Or  a  book?" 

"No,  Jack.     Why,  you  don't  want  to  read,  do  you?" 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all,  my  dear.     I  sunply  inquired." 

Beryl  smiled  brightly  at  him.  He  smiled  brightly  at 
her.  Presently  she  walked  across  the  room  and  searched 
her  traveling-bag. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?" 

"Oh,  nothing  of  any  importance.  I  merely  thought 
one  of  the  girls  might  have  dropped  my  lace-work  in  here." 

"You  surely  don't  want  to  sew  to-day?" 

"Certainly  not,  dearest  Jack.     I  was  only  looking." 

Again  they  valiantly  exchanged  then-  smile  of  perfect 
satisfaction. 

The  hours  crept  laboriously  on,  and  this  was  but  the 
beginning. 

Meanwhile  all  the  Gardines  and  Glyndons  were  in  a 
state  of.  most  painful  agitation;  for  the  two  o^\^leriess 
trunks  had  arrived  in  Boston,  and  been  blankly  gazed 
upon  by  Cousin  Thomas  and  old  Dr.  Mason,  each  of  whom, 
prevented  from  accepting  the  proffered  Gardine  and 
Glyndon  hospitality,  had  hastened  to  the  station,  not  to 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  451 

intrude  upon  the  felicity  of  the  young  people — bless  my 
soul!    but  merely  to  wish  them  good-speed. 

Cousin  Thomas  and  old  Dr.  Mason  looked  for  the  con- 
ductor, but  he  had  escaped.  They  gravely  decided  to 
drive  to  the  hotel,  where  they  found  that  rooms  for  the 
young  couple  had  been  duly  ordered.  The  dove-cot  was 
ready,  but  where  were  the  doves? 

The  old  gentleman  decided  that  it  would  be  best  to 
telegraph  down  to  Pineville. 

Before  ten  the  next  morning  all  the  Gardines  and  Glyn- 
dons  were  fluttering  to  and  fro,  and  the  air  was  thick  with 
ominous  fancies. 

At  noon  a  small  Gl3mdon  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind 
suddenly  inciuired:  "Papa,  will  they  recover  the  bodies?" 
At  this  ghastly  picture  Beryl's  sisters  biu-st  into  tears, 
and  rushed  frantically  from  the  room. 

No  thinking  person  outside  of  the  afflicted  families 
hesitated  to  call  the  disaster  by  its  name.  It  was  suicide — 
nothing  less.  And  the  Pineville  Evening  Bassoon  devoted 
a  column  to  it,  with  monumental  headings  and  a  forest  of 
exclamation-points.  They  sold  five  extra  editions  of  that 
paper,  and  the  reporter's  salary  was  doubled  the  next  day. 

It  was  raining  steadily. 

The  sixth  day  after  Jack  Gardine's  wedding,  as  the 
train  from  Pineville  to  l^oston  stojiped  at  a  small  way- 
station,  two  figures  emei-ged  from  the  gloom,  and  a  man's 
voice  applied  in  a  subdued  tone  for  a  compartment,  into 
which  the  figures  quickly  and  quietly  j^assed. 

No  conscience-stricken  runaway  couple  could  have 
shunned  the  public  gaze  more  completely  than  this  pair; 
but  from  the  moment  they  boarded  the  car  their  sjiirits  rose. 
They  whispered,  laughed,  sympathized,  and  each  found 
the  other  the  cleverest  and  most  entertaining  of  mortals. 


452     '      DELS  ARTE  RECITATION   BOOK. 

Blithe,  eage:-,  confidential,  they  steamed  on  to  Boston, 
Then  Jack,  having  shuffled  Beryl  as  fast  as  possible  into 
a  carriage,  went  to  give  up  his  checks,  and  as  the  man 
who  secured  the  trunks  knew  no  more  of  the  great  Pine- 
ville  tragedy  than  did  Jack  himself,  the  pilgrims  safely 
rounded  this  dangerous  point.  Jack  decided  that  it  would 
be  wiser  to  choose  instead  a  hotel  never  patronized  by 
the  Gardines  and  Glyndons. 

"Now  we  are  safe!"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing  his  hands 
gleefully,  as  the  door  closed  behind  the  man  who  had 
shown  them  to  their  pleasant  rooms. 

"Now  we  are  at  rest  and  happy,"  cried  Beryl,  ringing 
for  a  pitcher  of  ice-water,  "Jack,  suppose  we  go  down 
and  have  a  nice  hot  supper  in  the  dining-room,  where  it 
is  very  light  and  there  are  a  great  many  people?" 

"And  no  canned  things  to  ruin  one's  appetite!" 

"But  we  must  change  our  toilets,  for  we  both  look 
as  if  we'd  been  through  the  wars.  Those  blessed  trunks! 
They'll  be  up  directly,  won't  they?" 

Neither  of  them  had  observed  the  bell-boy's  face. 

He  now  entered  the  room-,  a  tray  in  one  hand,  a  news- 
paper in  the  other. 

" Look-a-here.  Ain't  you  them?"  he  demanded,  plant- 
ing his  index-finger  on  a  certain  spot  of  the  paper. 

"Is  the  boy  an  idiot?"  said  Jack,  seizing  the  paper.  It 
was  the  Pineville  Evening  Bassoon. 

"Beryl,"  he  exclaimed,  "read  this!" 

"Oh,  Jack,  dear  Jack,  it  is  terrible!  Let  us  hurry  home 
and  beg  them  to  forgive  us." 

But  Jack  Gardine  was  in  no  melting  mood.  On  the 
contrary,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  in  a  towering 
passion. 

"Confound  the  Bassoon's  impudence!  Am  I  not  of 
age?     Hasn't  a   man  the  right  to  go  where  he  pleases 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  453 

on  his  wcddin.i^  journey,  and  stay  as  long  as  he  wishes? 
Boy,  is   there   a   reward    offered    for   information  about 


us 


?" 


"There  is." 

"  If  you'll  hold  your  tongue  and  help  us  get  off  instantly 
to  the  Boston  and  Albany  station,  I'll  double  the  rewartl, 
whatever  it  is.  I'll  start  you  in  business.  I'll  be  your 
friend." 

""Oh,  I'll  help  yer  for  nothin',"  said  the  cnthasiastic 
boy.  "I  never  was  in  anything  of  this  sort  before.  I 
never  knew  any  suiciders." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Berj'l,  "that  we  ought  to  tele- 
graph something  to  comfort  them — something  loving." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  returned  Jack.  He  was  in 
Chicago,  and  felt  masterful.  See;  and  he  wrote:  "Want 
five  hundred  dollars. — Jack." 

"Why,  you  don't,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  not,  but  father's  acquainted  with  the  style." 

While  awaiting  Judge  Gardine's  reply,  the  runaways 
arraj'ed  themselves  in  charming  costumes,  and  prepared 
to  look  the  worlil  in  the  eye.  Jack  chuckled  when  his 
father's  answer  came: 

"Have  advised  Bacon  Brothers.  Draw  freely.  Are  you 
ill  /     What  has  happened  1 " 

The  following  message  was  iuunediately  sent  to  the 
agitated  parent: 

"Certainly  not.  What  should  happen?  B.  and  I  never 
so  well  and  happy." 

To  which  the  good  old  judge  rcplietl,  simply,  "God 
bless  you,  my  children." 

A  brisk  correspondence  now  took  place  between  the 
young  couple  and  the  famil)\  Judge  Gard.ine  \entured 
to  inquire,  in  the  most  guarded  and  delicate  manner, 


454  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

if  they  had  lost  their  trunks.  Jack  responded  that  if  the 
family  had  the  privilege  of  observing  the  effect  produced 
by  Beryl's  bewitching  toilets,  they  would  entertain  no 
doubts  whether  she  were  in  possession  of  her  wardrobe.  At 
the  same  time  he  would  like  on  his  own  account  to  protest 
against  any  further  imputations  of  imbecility,  and  was  at 
a  loss  to  know  why  he  should  be  followed  on  his  wedding 
journey  by  hysterical  telegrams  and  most  unflattering 
doubts  of  his  ability  to  take  care  of  himself  and  his  wife. 

"I  don't  blame  the  boy,"  commented  Judge  Gardine — 
"I  don't  blame  him." 

"I  presume  nothing  could  be  more  annoying  than  our 
attitude,"  returned  Dr.  Glyndon,  "as  they  have  no  sus- 
picion of  its  cause.  This  last  letter  of  his  demands  a 
full  explanation." 

Accordingly  the  judge  broke  the  unpleasant  news  to 
his  dear  boy  tenderly,  almost  as  if  he  alone  were  at  fault. 

When  Jack's  answer  finally  came,  tears  of  proud  affection 
moistened  the  old  gentleman's  eyes.  Anything  more 
high-toned  than  Jack's  attitude  could  scarcely  be  imagined. 
He  wrote  briefly,  but  in  a  restrained  manner  begged  one 
service  of  his  father  as  the  only  reparation  that  could  be 
made — silence,  absolute  and  enduring  silence,  in  regard 
to  the  wedding  journey;  for  any  innocent  questions  about 
their  harmless  little  trip  to  Chicago  would  awaken  in 
him  and  Beryl  painful  memories  and  suggestions  of  the 
odious  crime  imputed  to  them. 

All  the  Gardines  and  Glyndons  now  begged  and  implored 
Jack  and  Beryl  to  return  for  Thanksgiving;  and  they 
deigned  to  be  appeased,  and  to  arrive  the  eve  of  the  great 
day. 

Had  they  been  in  reality  raised  from  the  dead,  they 
could  not  have  been  welcomed  with  warmer  demonstration. 

At  the  Thanksgiving  dinner  Jack  made  a  speech  the  like 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  455 

of  which  for  warmth  and  eloquence  was  never  heard  in 
Piueville.  If  now  and  then  his  eyes  twinkled  with  mischief 
when  he  glancetl  at  Beryl,  real  feeling  trembled  in  his 
voice  as  he  lauded  the  time-honored  customs  and  tra- 
ditions of  the  day. 

The  Gardines  and  Glyndons  were  proud  of  him,  and 
remembering  all  that  had  happened  since  the  wedding,  with 
tears  and  tender  laughter  they  responded  to  Jack's  fer- 
vent " God  bless  Thanksgiving  Day!  God  bless  the  family." 


BOY'S  BEAR  STORY. 


James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


T  ^7^'y  wunst  they  wuz  a  Little  Ijoy  went  out 

In  the  woods  to  shoot  a  Hear.     80,  he  went  out 
'Way  in  the  grea'-big  woods — he  did — An'  he 
Wuz  goin'  along — an'  goin'  along,  you  know, 
An'  purty  soon  he  heerd  somcpin'  go  "^^'o()h!" — 
1st  that  away — "Woo-ooh!"     An'  he  wuz  skeered, 
He  wuz.     An'  so  he  ruiuicd  an'  climbed  a  tree — 
A  grea'-big  tree,  he  did, — a  sicka-more  tree. 
An'  nen  he  heerd  it  ag'in:  an'  he  looked  round, 
An'  'twuz  a  l^ear! — a  grea'-big  shore-muff  \k\\v — 
No;   'twuz  two  Bears,  it  wuz — two  grea'-big  Bears — 
One  of  'em  wuz — ist  one's  a  grea'-big  Bear. — 
An'  they  ist  boff  went  "Wooh!" — An'  here  they  come 
To  climb  the  tree  an'  git  tlie  Tittle  Boy 
An'  eat  hmi  up! 

An'  nen  the  Little  Boy 
He  'uz  skeered  worse'n  ever!    An'  here  come 


456  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

The  grea'-big  Bear  a'climbin'  th'  tree  to  git 
The  Little  Boy  an'  eat  him  up — Oh,  no ! — 
It  'uzn't  the  Big  Bear  'at  ckimb  the  tree — 
It  'uz   the  Little  Bear.     Nen  when 
He  git  wite  clos't  to  the  Little  Boy,  w'y  nen 
The  Little  Boy  he  ist  pulled  up  his  gun 
An'  shot  the  Bear,  he  did,  an'  killed  him  dead! 
An'  nen  the  Bear  he  failed  clean  on  do\\Ti  out 
The  tree — away  clean  to  the  ground,  he  did — 
An'  lit  wite  side  o'  where  the  Big  Bear's  at. 

An'  nen  the  Big  Bear's  aw^ful  mad,  you  bet; — 

'Cause — 'cause — 'cause  the  Big  Bear 

He — he  'uz  the  Little  Bear's  Papa. — An'  so  here 

He  come  to  clunb  the  big  old  tree  an'  git 

The  Little  Boy  an'  eat  him  up !     An'  when 

The.  Little  Boy  he  saw  the  grea'-big  Bear 

A-comin',  he  'uz  badder  skeered,  he  vruz, 

Than  any  time!     An'  so  he  think  he'll  clunb 

Up  higher— 'way  up  higher  in  the  tree 

Than  the  old  Bear  kin  climb,  you  know. — But  he — 

He  can't  climb  higher  'an  the  old  Bear  kin  climb, — 

'Cause  Bears  kin  climb  up  higher  in  the  trees 

Than  any  Little  Boys  in  all  the  Wo-r-r-ld ! 

The  Little  Boy  he  clumbed  on  higher,  an'  higher, 
An'  higher  up  the  tree — an'  higher — an'  higher — 
An'  higher'n  iss-here  house  is ! — An'  here  come 
Th'  old  Bear — clos'ter  to  him  all  the  time! — 
An'  nen — first  thmg  you  know, — when  th'  old  Bear 
Wuz  wite  clos't  to  him — nen  the  Little  Boy 
Ist  jabbed  his  gun  wite  in  the  old  Bear's  mouf 
An'  shot  an'  killed  him  dead! — No;  I  forgot, — = 
He  didn't  shoot  the  grea'-big  Bear  at  all — 


"If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"I   will   speak  out.   for  I   dare   not  lie." 


SAINT   CECILIA. 

Evermore  to  her  rapt  ear 
Celestial  music  came,   and  strains  unknown 
To  mortal  sense  amid  the  throng  of  life 
Hushed  all  the  lower  tones  and  noise  of  earth 
With  heavenly  harmonies. 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  457 

ft 

'Cause  they  'uz  no  load  in  the  gun,  you  know — 
'Cause  when  ho  .shot  the  Little  licar,  w'y,  nen, 
No  load  'uz  any  more  nen  in  the  gun ! 

But  th'  Little  Boy  clumbcd  higher  up,  he  did — 

He  dumbed  lots  higher— tel  he  ist  can't  climb  no  higher, 

'Cause  nen  the  limbs  'uz  all  so  'ittle,  'way 

Up  in  the  teeny-weeny  tip-top  of 

The  tree,  they'd  break  down  wiv  him  of  he  don't 

Be  keerful!    So  he  stop  an'  think.     An'  nen 

He  look  around.     An'  here  come  th'  old  Bear! 

An'  so  the  Little  Boy  make  up  his  mind 

He's  got  to  ist  git  out  o'  there  some  way ! — 

'Cause  here  come  the  old  Bear! — so  clos't,  his  bref's 

Purt  'nigh  so's  he  kin  feel  how  hot  it  is 

Aginst  his  bare  feet — ist  lilce  old  "Ring's"  bref 

Wlien  he's  ben  out  a-huntin'  an's  all  tired; 

So  when  th'  old  Bear's  so  clos't — the  Little  Boy 

Ist  give  a  grea'-big  jump  fer  'nother  tree — 

No! — no,  he  don't  do  that! — I  tell  j'ou  what 

The  Little  Boy  does: — W'y,  nen — w'y,  he — Oh,  yes — 

The  Little  Boy  he  finds  a  hole  up  there 

'At's  in  the  tree — an'  climbs  in  there  an'  hides — 

An'  nen  th'  old  Boar  can't  find  the  Little  Boy 

At  all!     But.  purty  .soon  th'  old  Bear  finds 

The  Little  Bt)y's  gun  'at's  up  there — 'cause  the  gun 

It's  too  tall  to  be  tookod  wiv  him  in  the  hole. 

So,  when  the  old  Bear  find'  the  gun,  ho  knows 

The  Little  P>oy's  ist  hid  'rountl  somers  tliere. — 

An'  th'  old  Bear  'gms  to  .snuff  an'  sniff  around, 

Out  where  the  Little  Boy's  hid  at. — An'  nen — nen — 

Oh,  yes! — W'y,  purty  soon  the  old  Boar  climbs 

'Way  out  on  a  big  limb — a  groa'-long  limb. — 

An'  nen  the  Little  Boy  clhnbs  out  the  hole 


458  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

An'  takes  his  ax  an'  chops  the  limb  off !  .  .  .  Xen 
The  old  Bear  falls  k-splunge !  clean  to  the  ground 
An'  bust  an'  kill  hisse'f  plum  dead,  he  did ! 

An'  nen  the  Little  Boy  he  git  his  gun  an'  'menced  a-climbin' 

Down  the  tree  again — 

No ! — no,  he  didn't  git  his  gun — 'cause  when 

The  Bear  failed,  nen  the  gun  failed,  too — An'  broked 

It  all  to  pieces,  too! — An'  nicest  gun! — 

His  Pa  ist  buyed  it!— An'  the  Little  Boy 

1st  cried,  he  did;  an'  went  on  climbin'  do\\Ti 

The  tree — when  he  'uz  purt'-nigh  down, — w'j,  nen, 

The  old  Bear  he  jumped  up  again! — an'  he 

Ain't  dead  at  all — ist  'tendm'  thataway, 

So  he  kin  git  the  Little  Boy  an'  eat 

Him  up!     But  the  Little  Boy  he  'uz  too  smart 

To  climb  clean  down  the  tree. — An'  the  old  Bear 

He  can't  chmb  up  the  tree  no  more — 'cause  when 

He  fell,  he  broke  one  of  his — He  broke  all 

His  legs' — an'  nen  he  couldn't  climb! — But  he 

Ist  won't  go  'way  an'  let  the  Little  Boy 

Come  down  out  of  the  tree.     An'  the  old  Bear 

Ist  growls  'round  there,  he  does — ist  gi-owls  an'  goes 

■'Wooh!— woo-ooh!"  all  the  time!    An'  Little  Boy 

He  haf  to  stay  up  in  the  tree — all  night — 

An'  'thout  no  supper  neither! — Only  they 

Wuz  apples  on  the  tree ! — An'  the  Little  Boy 

Et  apples — ist  all  night — an'  cried — an'  cried  I 

Nen  when  'tuz  morning  th'  old  Bear,  oh!  he's  mad! — 

He  ist  tear  up  the  ground!  an'  go  "  Woo-ooh!" 

An' — Oh,  yes! — purty  soon,  when  morning's  come 

All  light — so's  you  kin  see,  you  know, — w'y,  nen 

The  old  Bear  finds  the  Little  Boy's  gun,  you  know, 

'At's  on  the  ground. — (An'  it  ain't  broke  at  all — 


DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK.  4r,o 

I  ist  said  tluit !)     An'  so  the  old  Bear  think 

He'll  take  the  gun  an'  shoot  the  Little  Boy — 

But  Bears  they  don't  know  much  'bout  shoo  tin'  guns; 

So  when  he  go  to  shoot  the  Little  Boj'-, 

It  shot  the  Bear,  it  did — an'  killed  him  dead! 

An'  nen  the  Little  Boy  dumb  down  the  tree 

An'  chopped  his  old  woolly  head  off: — Yes,  an'  killed 

Boff  the  bears,  he  did — an'  tuk  'em  home 

An'  cooked  'em,  too,  an'  et  'em. 

— An'  that's  all. 


HIS  NEW  BROTHER. 

Joe  Lincoln. 


CAY,  I've  got  a  little  brother. 

Never  teased  to  have  him  nuther, 

But  he's  here; 
They  just  went  ahead  and  bought  him, 
And,  last  week,  the  doctor  brought  him. 

Wa'n't  that  ({ueer? 

When  I  heard  the  news  from  Moll}'', 
Wliy,  I  thought  at  first  'twas  jolly, 

'Cause,  you  see, 
I  s'posed  I  could  go  and  .get  him 
And  then  mamma,  course,  would  let  liim 

Play  with  me. 

But  when  I  had  once  looked  at  him, 
"Why!"  I  says,  "My  sakes,  is  (hot  him? 


460  DELS  ARTE  RECITATION  BOOK. 

Just  that  mite!" 
They  said,  "Yes,"  and,  "Ain't  he  cunnin'?' 
And  I  thought  they  must  be  funnin', — 

He's  a  sight ! 

He's  so  small,  it's  just  amazin'. 
And  you'd  think  that  he  was  blazin', 

He's  so  red ; 
And  his  nose  is  like  a  berry. 
And  he's  bald  as  Uncle  Jerry 

On  his  head. 

Why,  he  isn't  worth  a  dollar! 
All  he  does  is  cry  and  holler 

More  and  more; 
Won't  sit  up,  you  can't  arrange  him, — 
/  don't  see  why  pa  don't  change  liim 

At  the  store. 

Now  we've  got  to  dress  and  feed  him, 
And  we  really  didn't  need  him 

More'n  a  frog; 
Why'd  they  buy  a  baby  brother 
When  they  know  I'd  good  deal  ruther 

Have  a  dog? 


THE  GALLANT  FRENCH  SERPENT  AND  EVE. 


T   E  Monsieur  Adam  vake  from  hees  nap  une  fine  day, 

In  ze  beautiful  gardaine  and  see 
Une  belle  demoiselle  fast  asleep,  and  he  say, 
"Voila,  la  chance!  here  ees  something  zat  may 
Be  mooch  interesting  to  me." 


DELSARTE  RECirATION   BOOK.  461 

Veil  he  open  lices  eye  to  admire  ze  view, 

Viz  her  fan  iiuulaino  covaire  her  face. 
Zen  monsieur  to  madame  say:   "]5on  jour;  voulez  vous, 
Clo  for  une  promenade?"     And  zcy  valk  out,  ze  two, 

In  zat  very  mooch  beautiful  place. 

Vhere  Monsieur  le  Serpent  he  sit  in  zc  tree, 

Zey  come,  and  ze  ma'me  she  cry: 
"Oh,  Monsieur  le  Serpent,  voulez  vous  not  have  ze 
Bonte  for  to  j^eek  some  fine  apple  for  me?" 

"C'ertainement!"   ze  Serpent  reply. 

"Hold,  hold,  mon  ami!"  zen  IMonsieur  Adam  speak, 

"Vat  madness  ees  zis?    Don't  you  know 
It  ees  wrong  to  cat  from  zc  tree  \'ich  you  seek?" 
But  ze  snake  in  ze  branches  ees  pretty  and  sleek, 
And  he  smile  on  ze  madame  below. 

"Oh,  ^lonsieur  Adam!  vat  you  say  is  not  true. 

For  do  you  not  know,"  say  ze  snake, 
"  Derc  ees  notting  vatevaire  prohibited  to 
Ze  ladies?    Madame,  let  me  offaire.to  you 

Ze  fruit."     And  ze  madame  she  take. 

Une  courtesy  she  make ;  zen  ze  Serpent  ho  fill 

Her  apron  viz  apjjles  and  say: 
"Monsieur  Adam,  cat  of  zis  fruit,  zin  you  vill 
Be  vise  like  un  god ;  know  ze  good  and  ze  ill ; 

Ze  tings  of  ze  night  and  ze  day. 

"  Ikit  as  for  ze  lady  she  nevaire  could  be — " 

Here  ze  snake  make  hees  grandest  salaam — 
"More  lak  une  vise,  beautiful  goddess,"  say  he 
(And  smiling  and  bowing  his  sweetest),  "zan  she 
Ees  now!"    And  zat  fineesh  madame. 


462  DELS  A  R  TE  BE  (JIT A  TION  B  0  OK. 

HINTS  FOR  STATUE-POSES. 

NO  prettier,  more  popular,  and  at  the  same  time  more 
sesthetieally  educational  entertainment  can  be  ar- 
ranged than  a  series  of  statue-poses  modelled  after  classic 
works  of  art.  The  work,  though  in  no  way  a  part  of  the 
Delsarte  System  as  formulated  by  Fran9ois  Delsarte,  is  a 
natural  outgrowth  of  a  study  of  its  principles,  both  as  exem- 
plified in  existing  historic  art-works  and  as  applied  to  the 
living  human  form.  Taken  in  this  sense,  statue-poses  are 
appropriately  included  in  any  work  treating  on  the  Delsarte 
System.  It  is,  however,  a  misnomer  to  call  anything  of 
the  sort  "Delsarte." 

Some  of  the  photographs  scattered  through  this  book 
are  taken  directly  from  the  original  classic  works  of  art. 
They  have  been  selected  from  the  numerous  statue-poses 
given  by  Delsartiaus  as  being  among  the  most  effective  and 
graceful  of  these  plastic  pictures. 

To  properly  give  statue-poses,  the  auditorium  should  be 
darkened,  and  the  stage  lighted  by  a  strong  calcium  light, 
white  or  colored.  A  background  of  drapery,  either  black 
or  dark  red,  brings  out  the  pose  to  best  advantage.  No 
stage-setting  or  furniture,  except  pedestals  when  necessary, 
is  advisable. 

The  costume  for  these  poses  is  a  loose  Greek  robe,  one 
that  shows  the  curves  of  the  form  without  in  any  way 
constricting  its  movements.  A  beautiful  and  historically 
correct  dress,  with  illustrations,  is  described  in  Werner's 
Magazine  ioxls\':\,^,\^^d'c).'^  Drapery  around  the  legs  should 
be  avoided.  The  only  underskirt  permissible  is  one  of 
cheese-cloth.  Cream-colored  cheese-cloth,  while  inexpen- 
sive, is  at  the  same  time  quite  as  pretty  and  lends  itself 
quite  as  readily  to  statuesque  effects  as  heavier  or  more 
costly  material.     A  white  Vvig  maybe  Avorn,  if  desired;  but 

*  Sent  for  25  cents. 


DELS  A  n  TE  n  J'J<  7  TA  Tl  OX  B  0  0  K.  4G  3 

the  natiinil  Imir,  ari'aiiged  in  a  loose  knot  at  the  back  of 
the  head  uiul  ]»(»\v(]cred  thickly  with  cornstarch,  is  quite  as 
effective. 

The  five  different  poses  of  the  Niobe  nia}-  be  given  singly 
or  all  together  in  a  group. 

In  cases  like  Hebe-,  ]\Ielpomenc,  Ganymede,  and  others, 
where  vases,  jars,  discs,  flowers  and  other  accessories  are 
used  to  round  out  the  original  art-work  as  a  picture,  these 
accessories  need  not,  and  generally  do  not,  appear  in  the 
poses  as  given  by  the  human  form.  But  the  arms  and  all 
the  parts  of  the  body  are  to  be  posed  exactly  as  if  actually 
holding  the  article.  If  desired,  the  jar,  flower,  or  what- 
ever is  in  the  picture,  may  be  included  in  the  jiose.  This, 
however,  interferes  with  the  passing  from  one  pose  to 
another  in  cpuck  succession.  The  poses  will  then  have  to 
be  given  as  a  series  pf  classic  tableaux,  the  groups  being 
arranged  each  time  before  the  curtain  is  raised.  Without 
the  accessories,  the  poses  may  merge  into  one  another  in 
full  view  of  the  audience,  care  being  taken  to  make  the 
transitions  without  losing  in  any  degree  a  perfect  and  har- 
monious j)oise  of  the  body,  and  with  graceful,  simious 
curves  of  the  body  and  limbs.  This  is  very  difficult  to  do 
well,  requiring  much  practice  and  a  perfect  control  of  all 
the  muscles.  No  trace  of  effort  should  be  ai)parent  either 
in  the  transition  from  one  pose  to  another  or  in  holding 
the  pose.  But  the  result  is  well  worth  the  effort,  not  oidy 
because  of  the  increased  beauty  of  the  scene,  but  also 
because  of  the  muscular  benefit  to  the  performer.  Of 
course  the  face  should  be  in  harmony  with  each  pose. 
This  may  seem  unnecessary  to  say;  but  tlie  frequent  mean- 
ingless expression — if  anything  meaningless  may  be  called 
expression — of  the  face  in  poseurs  calls  for  a  M'ord  of 
warning. 

An  idea  that  is  new  and  has  been  successfullv  tried  is  the 


464  DELS  ARTE  REGIT  A  TION  B  0  OK. 

giving  of  a  series  of  poses  based  wholly  on  athletic  snbjects. 
Sculpture  is  full  of  such  themes.  The  following  statues, 
partly  of  single  figures  and  partly  of  groups,  are  excellent 
examples  : 

Combat  between  a  Greek  and  a  Centaur. 

Centaur  Overpowering  a  Greek. 

Dying  Gladiator. 

The  Pugilists. 

Discobolus. 

Laocoon. 

Wrestlers. 

Diana  Shooting  with  Bow. 

Combat  between  Hercules  and  Warrior. 

Boxers  Nos.  1  and  2. 

Borghese  Gladiator, 
These  are  particularly  interesting,  inasmuch  as  they  are 
specially  suited  for  young  men,  who,  hitherto,  have  been 
allowed  no  place  in  statue-posing.  To  produce  the  greatest 
effect,  nothing  but  a  complete  suit. of  tights  should  be 
worn,  and  a  short  curly  white  wig.     The  result  is  beautiful. 


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lU.; 


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